


Centre Ring

by S J Hartsfield (abbykate)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Circus, Dubious research, F/M, M/M, Magicians, Minor character death as well, SJ's finally gone a bit bonkers, Sherlock is an unstoppable sex machine, They just don't do it where we can see, Things were pretty wacky in 1919, Yes I said circus, Yes Jim and Seb are shagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-30
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 05:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/499790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbykate/pseuds/S%20J%20Hartsfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come one, come all!” he called, and at the familiar summons, John couldn’t help but smile.  “Come to the Baker Street Brothers Circus, and see such sights as to dazzle your eyes!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Crimson Parade

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first (and possibly last) AU fic. I don't normally write them, but the plot for this one literally came to me in a dream, and as soon as I told Jill about it, she insisted I write it. So it's basically a present for her that I'm also posting online at her request.

_Heathfield, Sussex, 1919_

Captain John Watson, formerly of the BEF, shuddered into consciousness, hand outstretched into the blackness to stop a grenade that existed only in the battlefield of his mind. He gulped air, trying not to retch, eyes spinning near-frantic as he scanned the darkness of the bedroom. Nothing. Nothing. His heart rate steadily slowed. His shoulder twinged, the shrapnel scar reminding him that it wasn’t always a dream. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and concentrated on breathing. Even through the pressure exerted on his palm, he could feel the tremor in the muscles there. He swore under his breath, harsh and necessary. There was no one to hear.

Grey morning was seeping through the curtains before he was finally able to sleep again.

 

Although it was nearly nine in the morning by the time John made it out the door of his bedsit, the town of Heathfield was quiet. The streets, while certainly not deserted, were a far cry from the hustle and bustle of London, where John had spent most of his younger days. People were polite here, even friendly – men tipped their hats to him as he limped along, women smiled, and children were not shy about gaping at the cane upon which he so heavily leaned. Despite their stares, he never could really bring himself to feel self-conscious about it. The shrapnel in his shoulder, his limp, his shaking hands… he’d gotten off easy. He knew he had. He could still walk, however slowly; he could still see and hear and he could wake up every morning not cursing the gas that had taken his senses from him. A bum leg and a judder in his hands were comparatively small fish.

When he reached The Crown, he dug in his pockets, dejectedly counting the money he had on hand. He was running on the last bit of his last pension cheque, and had no idea what he would do once it ran out. Before the War, he’d had moderate success as a surgeon in London, picking up locum work where he could. But these days… he flexed the fingers in his left hand, grimacing. Understandably, no one wanted a doctor with an intermittent tremor in his dominant hand. If he couldn’t somehow control the spasms, he would soon have to find other work. But he was a soldier in his bones and a doctor in his heart, and he couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

He had two single notes, five half-crowns, six shillings, and a few pennies. It would buy his next few meals, at least. The owners of The Crown were generally pretty lenient on him, as well as on the few other soldiers who came through looking for a nibble and a place to rest. But they wouldn’t feed him for free. He sighed and pushed open the door with his good shoulder. He needed to find some means, and fast.

 

John sat hunched over his plate, mopping up the last of the brown sauce with another hunk of bread, generously donated by the barkeep. He couldn’t remember ever being as consistently hungry as he had been since coming back from the War. Every time he sat down to a meal, he behaved as though he was pawing through rations – in the trenches, you ate what you had whenever you could, no questions asked. It struck him that he hadn’t complained about the taste of anything since demobilising, either. He’d never been a picky eater, really, but on rare occasions he’d been known to send a meal back if it didn’t taste quite right, or request something else in lieu of what he’d ordered. Not now, he mused. Compared to what he’d been eating, everything tasted like heaven.

“Anything else, Captain?” The barkeep, Stephen, leaned on his elbows over the bar and fixed him with a fretful gaze, his eyes flinty as they scrutinized him from beneath bushy brows. He was a good man, was Stephen, and most of the time John appreciated his concern.

Today though (oddly enough, since today he probably needed it most), he didn’t have the inclination toward assurance. John waved him off. “I’m fine, thanks.” Stephen nodded and moved back down the bar toward a couple who spoke furtively to one another, heads close together. John watched them idly for a moment, wondering what it was they were discussing. Whatever it was, it was clearly serious – the man groped at the woman’s hands imploringly, his whispers harsh and beseeching. John shook his head and turned away. They were young. They had all the time in the world to sort it out. He was draining the last bit of ale from his glass when he first heard the music.

At first he thought he was going mad. It was a jaunty tune, almost playful, and sounded for all the world like a calliope. John sucked up the last of the head and replaced his glass on the bar, cocking an ear toward the source of the sound. It came from the street, and now the other denizens of The Crown heard it too. Stephen’s face broke out into a wide smile, emphasized by his bottlebrush moustache. “Ah, ain’t that a sound,” he murmured. “No circuses been through here in ages.”

Now that John thought about it, it _was_ circus music. The sort that came with clowns and savage cats and pretty girls. The sound lifted his spirits, making him feel lighter than he had in a very long time. He didn’t get up, but spun his stool so that he could glance out the pub’s large window. Maybe he could catch a look at the parade as it went by.

For a moment, he saw nothing – only heard the music gaining volume, louder by degrees. Then he began to pick up the squeals of children out on the street, their cries of joy growing closer and closer before the first of the colours exploded into view.

His first impression was that of _red_ – everything about the circus parade seemed draped in various shades of crimson and ruby, with gold glimmering at the edges of everything in sight. A tall man in high-shined black boots led the procession atop a white horse, his tailcoat glittering in the midday sun. His top hat was banded with golden ribbon and he held a speaking-trumpet before his lips, causing his unctuous voice to amplify ten-fold as he called to the people on the streets.

“Come one, come all!” he called, and at the familiar summons, John couldn’t help but smile.  “Come to the Baker Street Brothers Circus, and see such sights as to dazzle your eyes! Sights the likes of which you’ve never seen before, no, not even you, sir! Madame, bring your children; I can see their little eyes growing wide at the wonders before them, and who can blame them? You’ll laugh, you’ll applaud, you’ll gasp in delight and suspense!”

The ringmaster’s voice faded as he passed and John took in the rest of the procession. Behind him came the animal wagons – two lions and a tiger growled about in a barred cage on wheels. They were overseen by a silver-haired man in jodhpurs and a khaki jacket covered in pockets. He brandished a whip, cracking it against the wheels of the wagon on occasion, but never striking the animals. The lion tamer looked strangely calm in the face of his charges, as though snarling and snapping and three-inch claws were things to which he’d simply become accustomed over the years. His stolidly handsome face never wavered, no matter how the beasts raged.  

A row of white horses, trotting abreast, followed the big cats’ cage, flanked by a veritable mass of white poodles. The animals were bedecked with pink and yellow ribbons – as was the girl who rode the point-position stallion. More than a girl, John realised upon second glance; she was a woman, probably in her early thirties. But her open-faced expression and bright eyes made her seem much younger and infinitely appealing. She waved at the swiftly gathering crowd, blowing kisses and chirping instructions at her battalion of dogs. The poodles trotted happily alongside the horses, just as pleased at the display as their mistress seemed to be.

Just as John was beginning to wonder where the clowns were (because of course there had to be clowns), he caught sight of them. A man and a woman, faces painted – they waddled along behind the poodles in too-long shoes and wide, striped trousers, held up by garishly-coloured braces. The man carried a crème pie (at least, John assumed it was crème) in each hand and seemed to be looking for just the right time to land one in his companion’s face. As they passed The Crown, John saw him rear back, going in for the attack – but the woman was too quick for him, and caught him in the face with a bottle of seltzer water before he could achieve his goal. The crowd roared as the man put on an exaggerated look of disappointment, splattering the second pie onto his own head before the woman could do it for him.

The next cart, drawn by a single black horse, baffled John a bit. It was small, only about the size of a dressing stall, and draped in gauzy fabric. On the curtains was emblazoned the phrase, “What will you see for just 5p?” Before John could puzzle out the meaning of it, the light of a lantern erupted from within the cart and the men in the crowd gave an appreciative whoop. The silhouette of a woman – a very scantily-clad woman, if John was any judge of figure (and he was) – appeared, her shape cast on the thin fabric by the flame within. She preened like a peacock, presenting very plainly a preview of what else might be glimpsed if one was willing to pay. Less than notice her charms, John thought to himself what a clever way that was to bring in extra money for the circus; men would certainly be keen to scrape together an extra five pence for a look at a woman like that.

Two elephants (small, considering – John guessed they were young females) pulled the main wagon along behind the bawdy girl’s cart. _Ah_ , thought John, _so this is where the music’s made_. And indeed, atop the wagon, at a brightly-painted calliope, sat an elderly woman who tooted away on the instrument as though she were born to do so. John chuckled as he realized that she was dressed much like the ringmaster – her coat bore more spangles and ribbons and she sported two bright spots of rouge on her cheeks, but apart from that, their getups were nearly identical. She played with the enthusiasm of a much younger woman, and for reasons he couldn’t explain, it made John smile to see her.

The name of the outfit – THE BAKER STREET BROTHERS CIRCUS – was slapped across the wagon in gilded letters four feet tall. Beneath it read, less obtrusively, “1 Shilling Admission”. John grinned, thinking that he had much better uses for the little bit of money he had left to his name, and was prepared to turn back to his meal.

But it seemed the parade wasn’t over yet.

A single wagon, pulled by a magnificent grey stallion, brought up the rear of the procession. On the heels of the calliope-player’s jolly tune, it seemed almost out of place in its appearance – it was painted almost entirely black, with red trimming. It read simply, “THE GREAT SHERLOCK.” _Of course_ , John ruminated. _A magician_. But where – ?

But he saw him, then. The magician stood on the roof of his wagon, draped in a long black cape lined in red silk. He held his top hat in one hand, long arms outstretched to his sides as though presenting his very existence to the gathered crowd. John gaped – he looked unlike anyone he had ever seen. He had a shock of dark, curly hair, pale skin (even for a native Englishman), and features that seemed chiselled out of marble. His eyes slanted ever so slightly, giving him an almost feline look, and his expression was a pronounced one of supreme boredom. _Fawn all you like_ , his look said, y _ou’ll never deserve the wonders I can show you_. It was strange, John thought, to imagine a sentiment so specific based only on the man’s face, but he couldn’t help but feel as though that was what he was thinking.

Just as the wagon passed The Crown, the magician happened to look down at the window. John had vacated his stool long ago to stand at the glass and watch the circus pass and now he felt foolish, sure that the haughty illusionist would grace him with the same unimpressed mien he’d shown the other punters.

But he didn’t. When his strange eyes met John’s, they widened – if John had ever seen the man before in his life, he’d think he was being looked at with recognition. But he had never encountered anyone like this magician – this Great Sherlock – so it couldn’t be that. They held each other’s gaze for only an instant, but when the magician looked away, John released a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. He blinked, noticing for the first time that he was standing with one palm pressed against the window.

The Great Sherlock reached into his hat and produced – not a white rabbit or a bouquet of flowers, as John expected – something that looked like a handful of fire. The crowd gasped in delighted appreciation as he threw the flames into the air, where they exploded into a shower of glitter and light which rained down on the street. Everyone on the street applauded and shouted as the procession continued on its way. John could only watch in wonder as it disappeared past the crest of the pavement.

“Ah, that takes me back,” Stephen said, and John dragged his attention from the street. Stephen grinned at him and tossed his tea towel over his shoulder. “Spent some of my best days hanging about the circus tents with my brother. Thinking you’ll see it then?”

John shoved a hand into his trouser pocket and wrapped it around his money. It would be daft, he thought. It would be downright irresponsible of him to throw away a whole shilling on something so frivolous, so useless, when he was nearly out of money and perpetually out of work. He shifted his stance, tightening his grip on the handle of his cane and rubbing a shilling between his thumb and forefinger. It would be daft.

But behind his eyes there was a captivating vision of smoke and fire, of eyes the colour of a summer storm, and he knew that yes – he would be going to see the circus.


	2. Under The Big Top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was like a dam breaking – the crowd flooded in through the curtain as though their lives depended on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Good thing too, because Jill's got me locked in the basement and she says I can't come out until this story is finished. Lol!

John fell into line with the crowds who were queued up outside the enormous red-and-white striped tent. If the parade had been spectacular, the grounds themselves absolutely ran circles around it; he felt as though he could stare, open-mouthed, at everything around him for days on end and he still wouldn’t be able to take everything in. He could see a small tent to the south of the big top – the banner hanging over the entrance read simply, “The Woman”, and he could very well guess who was ensconced inside. Another tent, this one a bit larger and pitch black, sat to the east. It held aloft no identifying banner, but John had a very good idea that the magician held audience there. He straightened slightly, wondering if viewing the main event was strictly mandatory before being allowed to visit the other tents. All around him was merriness: children clinging to their parents’ hands in anticipation, adults chattering happily to one another as they waited… he could smell candy floss and popcorn and somehow, even the scents of sweat and animals struck him as less unpleasant and more familiar in a setting like this. John realized after a moment that he’d been looking around with a wide smile plastered to his face.

All at once, the same voice that had called the citizens of Heathfield out from their homes that morning rang out over the queue. “Welcome all, to the Baker Street Brothers Circus!” The crowd murmured appreciatively and applauded as their heads swivelled, looking for the source of the sound. But John had already seen it – a horn atop the tent. He guess that the ringmaster was probably still tucked up inside, speaking through a tube or something similar. It was quite clever, really. “In a moment, the entrance will open and you will all be allowed inside. Please, do be careful not to trample anyone in your enthusiasm to procure a good seat.” The crowd tittered. John wondered how much of it was a joke. “In exactly fifteen minutes,” the ringmaster continued, “the show will commence. Bad luck for anyone who hasn’t made it inside.” Someone unseen drew back the curtains at the tent’s opening. “See you very soon.”

It was like a dam breaking – the crowd flooded in through the curtain as though their lives depended on it. From every side, John was pushed and jostled, and for a very brief moment he deeply regretted his recent decision. He’d never been the keenest for large crowds, and he’d had quite enough wading through swamps of humanity recently to last several lifetimes. Swallowing the hard fist of anxiety in his throat, he clenched his jaw and tried to remind himself of why he’d come. _The magician_ , he recalled, and his mind helpfully supplied an image of the wild dark hair, a cape billowing in the breeze, a proffered palm filled with flame. An elbow caught John in the gut, nearly doubling him over and bringing him out of his head. _You’d better be worth it_ , he thought at the vision.

Despite the frantic press, he managed to secure himself a spot only a few rows from the front, near a miraculously clear aisle. The confines of the tent seemed to magnify the din tenfold, but the anticipation rising in John’s stomach was such that he hardly noticed. A single ray of sunshine, allowed inside by a cleverly cut hole at the top of the tent, acted as a spotlight, emphasizing the middle of the dirt-and-straw-carpeted ring. It was amazing, really, the speed with which the whole business had gotten set up. John wondered how long it would take to clear away.

Once it seemed that everyone had taken their seats, conversation lulled to a dull murmur. Then from somewhere, a drumroll rattled through the tent and the ringmaster strode purposefully into the centre ring, his arms raised in something between greeting and supplication, a gold-tipped walking stick clutched in one hand. The crowd went wild – cheers and whistles erupted into the space and the ringmaster’s smile (just a bit too wide to be anything but theatrical) positively shone. He waved his cane, signalling for quiet, and the audience complied. When he spoke, his slightly oily voice filled the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys, and girls!” he called. “My name is Mycroft Holmes, and may I welcome you all and thank you, thank you from the bottom of all our hearts, for your attendance here today.” A round of applause began to swell, but the ringmaster quickly quashed it with another brandish of his cane. “Before we begin what is certain to be a spellbinding extravaganza, let me say that it saddens me to announce that this will, in fact, be the Baker Street Brothers’ last performance.” A disappointed noise rose from the crowd and the ringmaster nodded in sympathy. “Yes, sad, but unfortunately true. Times have been hard recently, very hard indeed, as I am sure you are all aware. We simply cannot afford to go on. However,” with his cane, he pointed to the split in the tent, now drawing closed, “should anyone present wish to do so, our fabulous performers will be standing by after the show to take donations, which will aid in sending them on their way to pursue other walks of life.”

John applauded with the rest of the crowd, trying in vain to envision what else someone like The Great Sherlock could do with his life. He imagined that imperious figure wiping down the bar at a pub or mending children’s toys and snorted quietly.

Then the ringmaster melted back into the shadows, the band struck up a tune, and for a half an hour, John was lost to the world.

The show, as it happened, wasn’t anything he’d never seen before. In fact, it was all standard fare – the clowns on the side-lines, with their running physical commentary on each act, the thrill of danger as the lion tamer mastered his beasts, the girl in the sparkling dress and her army of dogs. His breath caught as a scrub-faced young man made his way across a high wire, strung from one end of the tent to the other; he laughed in delight with the rest of the punters as a pair of men flipped wooden pins back and forth to one another. He gaped, unabashed and open-mouthed, at the Chinese acrobats who performed amazing feats of balance and dexterity and twisted themselves into shapes he’d never imagined possible for the human body. All the while, the cheerful old woman on the calliope pounded away, leading her small regiment of musicians from somewhere unseen.

No, the Baker Street Brothers Circus wasn’t anything special, when you looked at it objectively. But that didn’t make any difference to John. He felt light, almost giddy. Somewhere in the far reaches of the back of his mind, he knew it would eventually end and he would go back to his beige existence, but none of it made any difference. Right now, he needed the escape.

The clowns had come back to the ring for another interlude when it all went wrong. Looking back, John wouldn’t remember exactly what it was they were doing. It was the voice from behind the curtain that he would remember: the high cry of, “Samson, no!” before a tall white dog came careening out into the centre ring. The girl in the spangled dress (Molly, John remembered from her introduction) raced out after it, lead clutched uselessly in her hands. The audience laughed; they thought it was part of the act, but John could tell from the look on the girl’s face that something was off. The clowns staggered back, caught off-guard, as Molly scampered around the ring after the uninhibited poodle. “Sally, Syl!” she called to the clowns, “help me grab him!”

By this time, most of the audience were practically in mirthful tears. John edged closer to the end of the aisle, his body tensing for something inevitable.

It happened so fast John almost didn’t see it. The male clown dove headlong for the dog and managed to grab it by one of its hind legs. It yelped, twisted about lightning-quick and, with a flash of sunlit bone, sank its teeth into the clown’s arm.

It was his pained, panicked yell that finally convinced the audience these antics weren’t part of the show. Molly shrieked and the dog snarled, shaking the captured forearm. Blood ran freely from the skin between its jaws, and the clown sobbed in agony. John struggled from his seat, grabbing his cane, and clambered over the barrier to the ring as best he could. The lion tamer rushed out from behind the scenes. “Get here,” he growled, clamping strong hands around the poodle’s jaws and prying them open.

The clown cradled his bleeding arm and John knelt stiffly beside him. “I’m a doctor,” he said to Molly, who had cast him a confused, teary-eyed glance as he approached. “Have you got any kind of cloth back there?” She nodded and followed the lion tamer, who had gathered the poodle up in capable arms, back behind the curtain, beckoning the other clown to follow them. John helped the man to his feet and the ringmaster came striding into the ring, arms lifted, mouth set in a grim line that twisted – with alarming speed – into a wide smile.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, voice slick with consolation, “my sincerest apologies…”

“Come on, mate,” John muttered to the clown, whose white makeup was beginning to drip from his face with his tears. “Let’s get you backstage, shall we?”

The ringmaster continued the spin. “I assure you, while this unfortunate incident has, as they say, thrown a bit of a spanner into the works, we shall continue to strive toward…”

Beyond that, John lost track of his speech as he bustled the clown through the curtain. The other performers were gathered around in a huddled group, brows knit with worry. The female clown rushed forward. “Get him over here,” she said in a thickly clipped accent. She pointed them in the direction of a haphazardly-gotten pallet, clearly just thrown together. “What d’you need, doctor?”

John was already shedding his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “Clean water. Hot, if at all possible. A cloth. Bandages,” he ordered, slipping into medic mentality with practised ease. He noted the way the man’s teeth clenched hard enough to make his painted jaws twitch. “Something stiff to drink, if you’ve got it.” The girl nodded, darting off. “Here,” John murmured, taking the clown’s arm gently in hand. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

“We’ve got a bloody arm off,” the clown opined, voice raw. “It’ll go green, I know it will, you’ll have to have it off with a bloody saw.”

Managing to stop himself rolling his eyes, John exhaled loudly through his nose. “I doubt it. I’ve seen much worse than this.” He ripped the sleeve of the striped shirt up its seam, exposing the rest of the clown’s arm. “Now hold still while I have a look. What’s your name?”

“Syl.” The clown sniffled, face turned away.

John nodded, examining the wound. “Well Syl, you are definitely in luck.” The female clown reappeared at his side, carrying a bucket of water (lukewarm, but it would have to do) and a bottle of something that looked to be brandy. John nodded his thanks and used the flannel in the bucket to mop up most of the blood. Syl gulped the brandy, his eyes watering. “Look here,” he said. “He got you good, and no mistake, but look. They’re just punctures.” The clown made a strangled sort of noise and John continued. “No, that’s good. Straight in, straight out. Hardly ripped the skin at all.” He pressed the flannel against the wounds and the clown groaned. “Easy. Be over in a second.” The bleeding was already beginning to slow. John looked to the others and the lion tamer handed him a roll of gauze. “Cheers.”

“I knew this’d happen,” someone in the back of the group said. John glanced back and saw the high-wire boy shifting from foot to foot, rubbing his palm frantically over the knuckles of his other fist. His voice was tight and rough, like he was trying not to cry. “I told everyone. Those dogs, they’re dangerous, I said. I was afraid since the beginning. I knew one of ‘em would go mad and attack someone!”

“Come off it, Henry,” the larger of the jugglers said. “It was just an accident.”

There was a bit of a commotion outside – the sound of the crowd gathering up and chattering as they exited the big top. Doubtless the ringmaster had sent them away after the disaster, John thought. His suspicions were confirmed when, moments later, the man himself came swooping into the space. “Well?” he demanded, all traces of slippery charm gone from his voice.

John stood, wiping his hands on his trousers. “He should be fine,” he assured the taller man. “I’ve gotten him wrapped up and the bleeding’s nearly stopped by now.” He shrugged. “He may have a few scars, but no permanent damage.”

The ringmaster looked down at him, a surprising (and somehow familiar) penetrating glint in his eyes. “Very efficient,” he said. “And you are?”

“Doctor John Watson,” John replied, offering a hand. “Captain in the BEF. Formerly,” he corrected himself. The ringmaster considered him for what seemed like a very long moment before accepting his handshake.

“Mycroft Holmes,” he said by way of introduction. “I am very grateful for your assistance.” He turned a discerning eye on the injured clown before looking back at John. “I’ve already asked that the audience find some respite from this…” he pulled a disdainful face, “ _event_ by sampling some of the other attractions on offer.” At this, his eyes drifted just over John’s shoulder, at something behind him. He gave an almost imperceptible little smirk that vanished as quickly as it appeared before meeting John’s gaze once more. “Now that you’ve gotten things under control, perhaps you’d like to do the same?”

John glanced behind him, but saw nothing apart from the gaggle of onlooking performers. “Yeah, all right,” he agreed, wondering what had drawn his attention. He gathered his jacket and donned it, sparing a look back at the supine figure of the clown. His counterpart was kneeling beside him, speaking in low tones. _I’ll check back in a bit_ , John decided as he ducked through the back curtain. _Just in case_.

He was nearly at the exit of the big top when he heard the ringmaster call after him. “I especially recommend our magician’s spectacle,” he said, something oddly smug in his tone. “You’ll see nothing like it anywhere else, I assure you.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, John shrugged through the tent into the sunshine. The ringmaster needn’t worry, of course, he thought. He fully intended to visit the black tent.


	3. The Great Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now then. Who'll be first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the lovers meet. Jill says the faster I write, the faster it will all be over. She's joking, but I wish she'd bring me some food. It's been three days.

John was less than surprised to see that most of the audience that had gathered in the big top had abandoned the grounds. He'd hardly expected most of them to hang about, considering what had just happened. A sizeable crowd gathered to the south – men already queuing into the tent of The Woman. But the black tent had attracted a smaller group; only six or seven stragglers remained who seemed interested enough in The Great Sherlock's act to stick around. John couldn't say he was sorry.

As he shuffled up to the tent, one of the punters noticed his approach. “You're the bloke who hopped into the ring, ain't you?” he asked. When John nodded, the man leaned in close to him, looking trepidatious. “How's the clown, eh? Gonna make it out alive?”

It was unbelievable, really, how many people thought a dog bite on its own was enough to disable a man. John took a deep breath and tried to remind himself that a good portion of these people had never been exposed to real trauma. “He'll live,” he said flatly, wondering for a moment if the man's interest was just the result of morbid fascination. “Magician not in, then?” he asked, gesturing to the crowd, which lingered outside the tent. The man glanced back and shrugged.

“One of the lads peeked in when we got out here and ain't seen hide nor hair of the magic man,” he said. “Wanted to go in anyway, but there's no telling what goes on in there. Could be dangerous.”

John was about to tell him that he was a circus magician, not a dark bloody sorcerer, when the flaps of the tent slowly drew back, revealing the blackness within. The group pressed forward, one of the younger men giving a whoop of excitement. John filed in at the back, more keen than he'd like to admit to see the show.

The dimness of the tent's interior didn't lessen once he was inside and his eyes adjusted. In fact, the entire thing seemed to be lit with a solitary lantern, its candle burning low. The spectators milled about, whispering. Speaking out loud would have seemed strange, in a place so close and so dark.

Just as John was beginning to suspect that he'd imagined the magician, a deafening bang shook the ground, accompanied by a burst of blue flame and a cloud of smoke. Someone in the crowd screamed; John was halfway to his gun before he remembered that he didn't have it with him. Then the Great Sherlock was standing before the crowd, top hat pulled low across his brow, cape wrapped tightly about his almost gaunt frame.

John's breath caught. Something about his countenance was mesmerizing. He was sure it was all for show – put-upon stage presence and carefully practised mystique – but magnetism seemed to cling to the man like a second skin, something that could never be fabricated or rehearsed. Something that came only from true-born charisma.

He said nothing. He only doffed his hat with graceful ease, tossing his cape back across his shoulders so that the crimson lining flanked his silhouette. He lifted one long, gloved hand and with a sharp snap produced a palm's worth of fire, as John had seen him do during the parade. The crowd gasped in appreciation, applauding. John could feel the fire's warmth radiating on his face as he stared, unable to tear his eyes away.

Just as abruptly as it had appeared, the fire extinguished. In its place, the Great Sherlock fanned out a deck of ordinary playing cards (at least, John assumed they were ordinary, which was probably his mistake). The magician remained silent and for a moment John wasn't sure what was meant to be happening. Then, even as he watched, the cards began to vanish. They simply slid away, whip-quick and gaining speed, until only one – the ace of hearts – remained. He then lifted his hat and tossed the ace almost casually inside before reaching in after it and producing the entirety of the deck once more. The audience erupted with delighted laughter, and John couldn't help but notice that there was no smugness or pride on the magician's face. He looked bored.

Flipping the cards back into his hat, he tucked it under his arm (it was empty now, John noted) and turned his strange silvery eyes on the faces of the audience members. For the first time, he spoke:

“Now then. Who'll be first?” When no one responded, the faintest of smirks flickered across his full lips. “Fine.” He levelled his gaze at the man who'd spoken to John outside the tent. “Busy day at the greengrocer's, was it? Pity your tomatoes didn't sell quite as well as you'd hoped. But it doesn't matter, it's a bad patch anyway. You should check for aphids.”

There was stunned silence and the Great Sherlock turned to a younger man. “You. Didn't bring your sweetheart with you, I see. Couldn't be bothered or were you planning on paying a visit to The Woman?” His clever eyes flicked to the woman next to him. “Oh, I see. Brought your other sweetheart instead. Venturesome.” The woman gave a quiet shriek of indignation and whirled on her companion, walloping him with her handbag. John chuckled.

The magician made his verbal way through the crowd, dissecting the lives of everyone present. A man who'd been unemployed for months and had yet to tell his family, another who'd nicked his son's private stash of biscuits, a woman who was two months pregnant (and, judging from the way she paled at the news, had had no idea). John knew his turn would come, but felt oddly at peace about that eventuality. He had nothing to hide.

Two others besides John remained when one man (cheater at cards, worked at a fishmonger's) blurted out, “This is rubbish! Pull a rabbit out your hat!” The crowd murmured assent and the Great Sherlock's gaze went eerily cold. John thought for a moment that he might turn some strange fury on them (surely that fire burned properly?), but instead he brought his hat back out and wordlessly reached inside. With an expression that should by all rights have turned them to stone, he produced a small white bunny rabbit. The crowd laughed and clapped, but their ovation seemed born more of relief than anything else. The Great Sherlock turned away from them all then, clearly indicating that the show was over. A tremor of offense rustled through the group as they made their way from the tent, but John lingered.

Once the rest had gone, the magician glanced over his shoulder, half-looking at John. “Why are you still here?” he asked. John suspected that he'd intended to sound intimidating, but he put John more in mind of a sulking schoolboy than anything else. He still held the rabbit, tucked into the crook of one arm, and idly stroked its ears.

“I just wanted...” John began, and faltered. Why had he stayed? “Well. I wanted to say. Your show. The mentalist bit.” The taller man exhaled, slow and audible, as though expecting something repugnant and very, very frequent. But John continued. “It was amazing.”

Silent tension settled over the tent. John thought maybe he should leave, but the Great Sherlock's lanky form swivelled ever so slowly to face him, a sort of half-guarded wonder painting his face. “Was it?”

“Of course it was.” John shifted his weight, gripping his cane. “Quite extraordinary. I mean, either you got everyone pretty well spot on or just no-one had the bollocks to correct you.” A flash of a smile crossed the magician's face; something about it made John suspect that it was quite a rare sight indeed.

He turned to face John fully, something near evaluative in his expression. “That's not what people usually say,” he admitted. The rabbit's nose twitched. John grinned and indicated it with a nod.

“So I noticed. Who's this, then?” The Great Sherlock made a moue of distaste and dropped his gaze before muttering a response. “Sorry?”

If John didn't know any better, he'd think he looked embarrassed. “Bluebell,” he repeated, raising his voice. Before John could even snicker, he continued, an edge of defiance in his voice. “It was Molly's idea. She insists that all of the animals have names.”

“It's good, though,” John said. “Bluebell.” The Great Sherlock approached him slowly, almost tentatively, as though afraid he'd run off. John felt heat rise beneath his collar and he cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, voice suddenly coming too loud for the size of the tent, “I suppose I'd better go check in on... There was an incident, during the main show. The – ”

“The clown,” came the acknowledgement. “I know. One of Molly's prized dogs seems to have gone a bit round the turn.” He was standing close now, thin fingers still skating across Bluebell's ears. “You told Anderson the wounds were minor.”

“I did tell him that,” John agreed. “No sense in worrying him, but puncture wounds... Well. They can be tricky. There's always a good chance of infection if they're not properly looked after.”

There was a strange moment wherein neither man spoke, but only looked at one another. John had never experienced anything quite like it – it felt as though they were carrying on with the conversation, though if you asked, he'd not be able to tell you exactly what was being discussed. Finally the Great Sherlock nodded and turned away once more. “I'd suggest you see to your patient then, doctor,” he said, lifting Bluebell gently from his elbow. After a beat, he added, “Thank you. For your patronage and your... appreciation.” His voice was oddly stilted; it sounded the way John's shoulder felt just after he woke up – stiff, not quite accustomed to use, as though the magician wasn't in the habit of doling out thanks. John only nodded before turning on his heel and leaving the tent. 

 

Minutes later, he ducked into the big top to find Mycroft in rather heated conference with Molly. The girl's face was red, eyes hard and shining with unshed tears, mouth set in the sort of tight line that comes from both rage and sorrow suppressed. The lion tamer stood nearby, fiddling with his whip and clearly trying his best not to get involved in the conversation. “I fully understand,” Mycroft was saying in a voice surely intended to be conciliatory. It came out condescending. “But it did accost one of my performers, unprovoked, and – ”

“He grabbed his leg! It frightened him!”

Mycroft ducked his head, sceptical, his eyebrows raising. “Nevertheless,” he said. Molly's face contorted and she spun about, running through the back flap of the tent. Mycroft looked to the lion tamer. “Gregory,” he said, and the man stepped forward. “I doubt that Miss Hooper will be inclined to carry out the necessary actions. If you'd be so kind?” Gregory nodded and followed the distraught girl. “Ah, doctor,” Mycroft greeted John as he approached. “I trust you're enjoying yourself?” 

For some reason, John felt shamefaced. He shook it off. “Very, thank you. How's your man?”

The ringmaster headed toward the back room, indicating with a jerk of his head that John should follow. “Milking it for all it's worth, of course,” he replied. “But I suspect it's not quite so dire as he makes out.” He raised the canvas cover with the tip of his cane and John peered inside. Sally had removed her paints, revealing dark skin and a wide mouth currently pulled down at the corners as she wiped makeup from Syl's face as well. 

“Good,” John said. “Pity this had to happen _now_.” At Mycroft's questioning look, he clarified. “This being your last show and all. Hell of a way to go out, I mean.”

Mycroft gave him a look that seemed to imply that he was being very dim indeed. “Don't be ridiculous,” he said. “Of course we're not closing. But give them a good show and an audience's pockets will practically bleed to see more.” Before John could comment, Mycroft murmured, “Will he really be all right?” He'd dropped his voice, too low to draw the attention of the clowns.

John glanced up at him, reading the same sort of cynicism in his features that he'd seen in the magician's. These men were clearly more educated than their current professions implied. “Provided he keeps it clean and tended, he should be,” he said. “There's always less superficial damage with punctures, but there's also a high risk of infection.” Mycroft nodded, not looking at him, and an idea suddenly unfurled in John's mind. It was stupid, most likely, but still – worth a go. “Don't suppose you chaps could use a doctor around full-time, could you?”

Mycroft turned a discerning eye on him and made a thoughtful noise. John felt a bit like a horse at market. “It was a stroke of luck, having you on hand,” Mycroft began, and John could tell already that he was about to be denied. “But should the need for medical treatment arise, we usually avail ourselves of whatever local physicians our current venue supplies. It would be...” his voice faded and once more his eyes drifted to a point somewhere roughly above John's head. John squinted, trying for a moment to figure him out, then turned. Nothing. “Although,” Mycroft continued, and his voice now held a strange sort of amusement. “It might be prudent to keep a man on hand for just such an occasion as this. Entertainment is, as you can imagine, not a risk-free profession.”

“Clearly,” John muttered, glancing back at the prostrate clown. “Lions, tigers, elephants... highly dangerous poodles on the loose.” Mycroft raised an aristocratic eyebrow and John cleared his throat. “Anyway, I've nothing on around here, so if you've got a place for me...”

The resulting sigh heaved by the ringmaster spoke volumes. John was about to dismiss the whole idea as a bad one, but Mycroft said, “Yes, all right. I'm sure we can find a place for you. I'll speak to the others and see how we might rearrange.” John fought to keep his grin under control. He had no right to be as pleased as he was about this, really, but he couldn't help it. “Collect any belongings you wish to bring,” Mycroft was saying, “but do try to keep it scarce. We don't exactly have unlimited space.” John nodded and turned to go, smiling quietly to himself as he went.

Had he looked back, he might have seen the look exchanged between the ringmaster and the magician – imploring and threatening and desperate, ensconced in the shadows of the tent.


	4. Roustabouts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He glanced back at the black tent and saw two men negotiating its deconstruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got another chapter cranked out! You're all gonna clap and cheer or I'm gonna smack your buns.

When John returned to the site of the circus, his kit bag filled with only his medical gear, a few changes of clothing, and, shoved in at the bottom of the pile, his gun, he was amazed to see the way that the scene had changed. Gone was the spit-and-polished atmosphere of a few hours before. The big top had very nearly deflated, its supports knocked away and loaded onto the waiting train by burly roustabouts. Handlers let and carted animals into their boxcars. Everywhere there was a thrum of activity.

“Oi,” someone called, and John turned. Gregory, the lion tamer, was making his way toward him. “Doctor Watson, yeah?” John nodded and he held out a callused hand. “Greg Lestrade. Heard you'll be joining us permanently.”

“Looks that way. Please, call me John,” John replied. He hitched his bag further up on his shoulder and looked around. “Busy time, I guess?”

“Oh yeah.” Greg shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing around. “The blokes always hate it a bit. The one-night-only shows, I mean. Put it all up, take it right back down. Hardly seems worth it, but there you have it.” He turned and waved John on to follow him. “C'mon, I'll show you around.”

John leaned on his cane and pressed on after him. “You've met Mr. Holmes, obviously,” Greg was saying as they dodged workers. “And Syl and Sally. They're a bit of a do sometimes, but you know. Clowns.” He said this conspiratorially, as though John had any idea. John nodded anyway. “You'll get to know the roustabouts a bit more once things've calmed down, I expect.” They passed the smallest of the tents, its deconstruction supervised by an elegant, sharp-eyed woman with prominent cheekbones and dark hair piled on top of her head. She watched John and Greg pass, a smile playing over her lips. “That's Miss Adler,” Greg confided. “Better known as – ”

“The Woman,” John finished, and Greg nodded. “So she's a... er, a stripper, then?”

“I think she likes the term 'burlesque performer' or summat like that,” Greg said, “But... a stripper, yeah. I mean, most outfits have one, at the least. It's not unusual. Good way to bring in extra cash.” They had nearly reached the Great Sherlock’s tent. “You met our resident diva?” Greg asked. John raised an eyebrow at him and Greg indicated the black tent.

“Oh.” John tightened his grip on his cane, unsure of what to say. “Well, I saw his show.”

“Barking, eh?” John gave a sort of half-nod, half-shrug. “That bit where he spits people’s life stories at them. No idea how he does it. Done it a fair few times with the folks around here and I tell you what, nobody thanks him for it.” John grinned. He wasn’t a bit surprised. 

Just then, the man himself stepped out of the tent, occupied rabbit caged tucked under one arm, hefting an enormous suitcase behind him. He stopped when he saw them, eyes skating over John's features. “Did he do you?” Greg said.

John blinked, tearing his gaze away. “What?”

Greg gestured to the magician, who was now studiously ignoring them as he made his way toward the train.  “When you saw the show. Did he do his funny brain thing to you?”

John's face heated and he hoped against hope that it wasn't obvious. The sun was quite warm, after all. “No, he didn't. He got interrupted before he got to me.”

Greg nodded sagely. “Well, it's only a matter of time,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of experience. “Everyone gets it eventually.” They started toward the train as well. “Mycroft's told me to put you up anywhere we can fit you, for now,” Greg said. “It was either the luggage car or kipping with the clowns, and I thought you might like a bit of privacy. So...”

“In with the luggage I go, then,” John finished. He glanced back at the black tent and saw two men negotiating its deconstruction. The shorter, darker of the two signalled instructions with flicks of his wrist, casting grim looks at Greg and the magician's retreating backs. His companion, a tall bloke with greasy blond hair and several days' stubble, followed his every command and paid them no mind. “Who's that?” John asked, turning back to Greg and jerking a thumb toward them.

Greg glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eyes. “Roustabouts,” he replied. At John's questioning eyebrow, he raised his hands in near-surrender. “Don't get me wrong, I've nothing against the profession at large. Most of the lads are perfectly nice, but those two...” He shook his head. “Jim and Seb. Jim's the little one. And I've got no idea how he's still got a job. Seb works well enough, but I don't know as I've ever seen Jim do so much as pick up a mallet.”

John chuckled. “Maybe they know somebody. Family of Mycroft's?”

Greg gave a bark of laughter. “Nah, not them. That's our magic man’s unhappy lot.” John snapped his head toward him and Greg nodded with a smile. “Oh yeah. They're brothers. Can't you see the family resemblance? It's all in the expressions.” At that, he pulled a sour-faced sneer so like the one John had seen on both men's faces that he snorted. 

The Great Sherlock veered off toward a sleeping car (John wondered if he had his own) and Greg led John to a boxcar near the back of the line. “It won't be the most comfortable of kips,” Greg said, hauling open the door, “but I reckon you can make it work for now.”

“Cheers.” John tossed his kit bag in among the rest of the luggage, then looked down at his leg and huffed under his breath.

“D'you need a hand...?” Greg asked, scratching his head awkwardly.

John waved him off. “I'm all right.” He laid his cane across the floor of the car, counted three, and hoisted himself up after it, keeping the weight off his bum leg as much as he could. “When do we set out?” he grunted, straightening up.

Greg puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled, surveying the progress being made by the rest of the circus folk. “An hour, maybe?” he guessed. “Depends whether the boss wants a meet before we go, to be honest.” He turned a smile on John. “Gives you plenty of time to set up shop, I think. I'll be helping Molly round up the dogs if you need me.” He shot a glance along the length of the train, considering. “What's left of 'em, anyway. See you.”

The lion tamer trundled away, hands in his pockets, and John looked around the boxcar. Most of the luggage seemed to be personal – suitcases labelled with initials, either hand-written on hard cases or stitched into softer canvas. None of it was terribly high-end stuff; John imagined the few members of the circus who could afford that kind of thing kept it in their own cars. He leaned his cane against a stack of cases and set about rearranging. Whoever had loaded the car hadn't done the best job of securing things, and John would hate to be woken in the night by someone's duffel falling on his head. He was a military man – order came naturally to him.

He'd only been working for a short while before he heard a polite tap on the open door. Turning, he saw Mycroft surveying his progress with what he hoped was an approving air. “Doctor.” The ringmaster acknowledged him with a nod. “I trust you're settling in?”

“Getting there,” John said, wiping dust from his palms onto his trousers.

Mycroft leaned on his own cane (meant only for show, John had noticed with a slightly jealous twinge). “I do apologize for the state of the accommodations,” he said, looking at some of the tattier bags with obvious distaste, “but I'm afraid this is the best that could be managed, given the abrupt nature of your joining our operation. I imagine we'll be able to negotiate something more suitable, given more time to examine the possibilities for rearrangement.”

The man did like his five-pound words. John thought of trenches and barracks and cramped spaces stuffed chock-a-block full of grumpy soldiers. “I've slept worse places,” he said, shunting another kit across the space. “Thank you,” he added. “For taking me on, I mean. I plan to earn my keep.”

Mycroft fixed him with a cool stare so artful that John wondered if he practised it in front of the mirror. “I assure you, doctor,” he replied, “my plans are similar.”


	5. Corncobs and Crawley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Sherlock gripped his face in both hands then, tightly. His fingertips dug into John’s cheeks and for a moment he was certain they’d break the skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really cookin' now! Haha! Ha! Hahaha... ha... haha.

John took small, careful steps toward the big top. It was lit from within by a shifting light, bright like fire, but he couldn’t smell anything. He really, really hoped it wasn’t burning from the inside out.

When he pushed back the striped canvas, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was only a lantern, a massive lantern, settled into the straw and sand. The Great Sherlock stood in the very middle of the centre ring, arms clasped behind his back, cape draping over his shoulders, giving him a vaguely vampiric appearance.  He must have heard John enter, because he looked up, eyes sharp.

“If you were dying,” he said, voice low, “if you were being murdered. In your last few seconds, what would you say?”

That was an easy one. “Please God, let me live.” The reply came naturally, as though he was living once more the moment when the shrapnel had entered his shoulder, spattering skin in every direction like some grotesque party cracker.

His answer clearly didn’t impress the magician, who pulled a face. “They chew, swallow the pills,” he said, disdain peppering his tone. “It’s Christmas, John.”

John nodded. He felt terrible, because he didn’t have gifts for anyone, but money had been so scarce since he’d returned from the Continent, what was he meant to do? He couldn’t sell his cane; he needed it.

The Great Sherlock was pulling playing cards from his sleeves, dozens of them, an endless stream of knaves and queens and hearts. “They were the footprints of a gigantic hound,” he explained. “An ancient Chinese numbering system.”

The edges of his cape caught fire then, blue flame that burned and burned but didn’t. It wasn’t hurting him, but John wanted to rip the cape from his body and stamp on it until it put itself out. “I didn’t get the shopping,” he blurted, embarrassed. He hadn’t, hadn’t gotten any of it and he knew they needed it, even if the magician wouldn’t eat. And he needed to eat. John wondered if he could make him. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the table that stood beyond the lantern. Bluebell crouched on it, wearing a miniature of The Great Sherlock’s top hat.

“Something new.” He breathed it, looked euphoric. He’d run out of cards, it seemed, and had begun yanking on the edge of a brightly-coloured handkerchief. He more he pulled, the longer it grew – blues and reds and yellows and every colour imaginable, all stitched together and forming a ribbon that had to be a kilometre long, at least. The Great Sherlock stepped forward and handed the end of it to John. “I don’t need this anymore,” he said. “I’m going to Dartmoor.” Of course he was. That’s where he’d find the hound. “That’s what people do, don’t they?” he asked, looking suddenly very vulnerable. “Leave a note?”

John helped him pull the ribbon. It seemed never-ending. “Leave a note, when?” The handkerchief finally ended in a flourish of silver. It looked like the magician’s eyes. Maybe it was.

The Great Sherlock gripped his face in both hands then, tightly. His fingertips dug into John’s cheeks and for a moment he was certain they’d break the skin. Oh well, what was one more scar? His eyes bore into John’s and the muscles in the magician’s jaw clenched tight.  “Corncobs!” he cried, releasing John’s face and grabbing his shoulders instead. “ _Corncobs!_ ” It was a plea, an imploration.

John wanted to say something, but The Great Sherlock released him before he could, swinging himself up onto Bluebell – who had grown to the size of a small elephant. “Goodbye, John.” The lantern light glinted off the single tear that rolled across his impossible cheekbones. Bluebell bounded away through the tent, leaving John to wonder exactly how he was meant to put that lantern out. He’d have to ask Greg.

 

He shivered awake to the sound of thunder. The luggage car was pitch black and freezing; John tugged his jacket close about his shoulders and shuddered. Bits and pieces of his dream began to drift through his mind. He’d wondered if maybe there was any significance to the things the magician had said to him – the bit about being murdered, something about leaving a note, those things seemed particularly dire. Then he remembered corncobs and Bluebell the enormous rabbit, and thought that it probably didn’t mean anything important after all.

He snuggled back in among the baggage, tucking into himself. It had been bizarre, certainly, he mused as he drifted off again, but there were much, much worse things he could have dreamt of.

 

After his short time in Heathfield, Crawley seemed like a bustling metropolis to John. It wasn’t a large town, by any means, but apparently its population was such that Mycroft felt it lucrative to stay for a few days. “I’ll send some money with you,” he told John that morning when the train had stopped and everyone was stretching out of their respective cars. “Go into the town proper and get whatever you need to conduct yourself. You should know,” he added, giving John an appraising look, “your excursion will not be unaccompanied. If any part of this allowance goes toward anything but medical supplies, I shall know it.”

John thought at first to be insulted, but he realized that Mycroft’s warning likely had less to do with his faith in John’s integrity and more to do with the wisdom of past experiences. He met that imperious gaze and shuddered to think of what must have happened to the fool who would steal from this man.

Mycroft led John to the sleeping car shared by the acrobats, jugglers, and clowns. Syl was stretched out on his camp bed, looking mournful. “How’re you feeling today, Syl?” John asked, crouching next to him.

Syl’s lips twisted into a frown. “Been better,” he mumbled. Without his paints, he looked wan, his features pointed and unappealing. John unwound the bandage, surveying the punctures.

“Well, they’re still clean, looks like,” he said, rewrapping Syl’s arm and standing with an approving nod. “I’ll see if I can get my hands on some antiseptics when I go get my stuff.”

Sally, who was running a brush stiffly through her tangled curls, turned. “You going into town?” When he nodded, she said, “I’ll come too. We’re nearly out of shave cream. For the pies,” she explained at John’s baffled expression. “Could do with some more white paints too, while we’re here.” She shrugged into a man’s shirt and buttoned it hastily. “Anything else, you lot?” she asked the car in general. At their murmured dissent, she nudged open the door with a hip and jumped down onto the grass. “Right then. Let’s go, doctor.”

 

So John bundled himself into an open-top cart with Sally and two others – during the trip into Crawley, he learnt that the driver, a large, balding man, was called Angelo (and was the circus’s resident cook), and that the buxom brunette woman with her face buried in a yellow-back novel was called Anthea (or at least she claimed to be, when John asked). When John inquired after what she needed in town, she had only smiled vaguely at him and looked back to her book. Angelo grinned widely. “There’s nothing she needs,” he’d confided to John with a significant look. John then realized that this was what Mycroft had meant when he’d said that their trip would be supervised. _So this is the boss’s watchdog,_ John thought, eyeing her. Not exactly what he’d expected.

Sally crossed her arms over her chest as the cart jostled along. “Get to see much of the show, then?” she asked John. “Before the poodle disaster, I mean?”

“I did, actually,” John replied. “Everything in the main tent, leading up to the, uh…” What had Mycroft called it? “Incident. It was good, though. What I saw.” Sally looked pleased, right up until John added, “Caught your magician’s act, as well.”

The scoff Sally let loose was positively dripping with contempt. “Ah, yeah,” she said. “Bet that was a treat.”

John felt his smile freeze on his face. “How do you mean?”

Sally raised her eyebrows at him. “You saw his mentalist bit, I guess?” she asked. John gave a single nod and she shook her head, “It’s freakish, that. I don’t understand the trick to it and I don’t want to, but he’s got no right doing it. It’s people’s private lives, innit? Who’s he to bring it all out for the sake of a laugh?”

John thought of the young man who’d been exposed as a two-timer and shrugged. “Maybe it’s things that need to be brought out,” he said. Something in the back of his mind kicked at his skull, bellowing questions about why he felt the need to defend a man he’d just met. He ignored it. “Besides, like you say, it’s just a laugh. I doubt he’s ruined any lives.”

The look that crossed Sally’s face made him wonder just how wrong he was. “Still and all,” she said. “If you’re gonna be on full-time with us, I wouldn’t recommend hanging about with him. He’s trouble.”

She looked away from him then, cutting conversation off neatly and gazing beyond the passing countryside at the horizon of the upcoming town. John stared hard at her for a moment before glaring down at his shoes. _What does she know, anyway?_ The thought was petulant, he knew, but he couldn’t help it.

They rode the rest of the way to Crawley in silence.

 

In town, John was able to procure most of what he needed to do serviceable enough work. His own flannels (to be kept as clean as humanly possible when not in use), high quality soap, tinctures of iodine and any other disinfectants and antiseptics he could get his hands on, a dozen large rolls of gauze bandages. Since the War was officially over, medical suppliers seemed to be keeping in stock more readily than before. John was glad – hadn’t been ignorant of the looks on the merchants’ faces when he entered their shops, the way their eyes were drawn to his cane, the sympathy-turned-pity he saw there. If he’d told them he was a military doctor, they would have given him what he needed regardless, but he wouldn’t have felt right in his own mind, knowing it was for a bunch of circus folk.

They didn’t split up to do their shopping; Anthea and the others followed John on his stops, and he did the same for theirs. Mycroft clearly wasn’t taking any chances. John considered asking Anthea what had happened to necessitate such strict security, but he had a vague suspicion that his questions would go unanswered. So he kept quiet.

By the time they reached the site of the circus, the big top had nearly risen fully. There was something about the process that made John smile – he felt like he was part of something hidden, let in on a secret. Anyone could see the circus, but he was now one of the few who got to see it come to life.

Just as they pulled up alongside the train, a broad-shouldered man came running up to the cart, face flushed red. “Doctor!” he called, leaning a wide hand against one of the wheels, struggling to catch his breath. “You have to come, quick.”

John grabbed his shopping. “What’s happened?”

The roustabout jerked a thumb behind him, toward the big top. “The magician’s hurt, sir,” he managed.

John’s vision flashed white for a moment. He leapt down from the cart, taking the man by his sleeve. “Take me to him.”

 

They found the Great Sherlock surrounded by a small crowd of men, his leg trapped under what appeared to be one of the larger animal crates. He looked more peeved than injured, but still grimaced when a few of the men gripped the crate and began to lift it off of him. “Carefully,” he groaned.

John pushed through the onlookers (one of whom was The Woman, he noted) and knelt at the magician’s side. The men managed to move the crate away and the Great Sherlock’s head fell back onto the grass with a sigh of relief. “What happened?” he asked, not caring overmuch who gave an answer at this point.

“No one saw,” Irene answered smoothly from her place at the side-lines. When John glanced up at her, she was watching him with an infinitely amused air. Entirely inappropriate considering the circumstances, John felt. “I suppose he was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The magician shot her a strangely nasty look, then nodded. “Rotten luck,” he muttered, shuffling up to rest on his elbows. “Not the first time my particular brand of misfortune has manifested.”

He sounded just like his brother. John wasn’t sure how he hadn’t figured it out before now. “Well, we’ll see what we can do for you,” he said, helping the taller man to his feet and slipping an arm around his torso to steady him. He was surprisingly warm, given his pallor, and John saw that he was indeed favouring the leg that had gotten caught. “Let’s get you back…” He realized he wasn’t sure. “Where?”

“My wagon.” He waved a pale hand in the direction of a small encampment of painted house-coaches near the train. “I tend to stay there during long engagements. It’ll be the most comfortable.” John nodded, set his jaw, and they staggered off toward it. He could almost feel the eyes of The Woman on their backs as they went. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

But, he reflected, he couldn’t afford to dwell on it just at the moment. He had quite enough to be getting on with.


	6. The Magician's Wagon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Great Sherlock's brow wrinkled, as though he'd forgotten something. Without warning he folded in on himself, slumping onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a shorter chapter this time around, chaps. But don't worry, the next one will be extra long to make up for it! I'm working in advance, so I've actually got more chapters written than I have posted. I'm currently writing chapter 967.
> 
> Oh! I've also been asked to link to the Tumblr I share with Jill. You can find updates about this fic (and other chicanery) at http://jillandsarah.tumblr.com. Welcome, won't you?

Inside, the wagon was a cacophony of colour. And a bit of a mess, John couldn't help but notice – there were things on every available surface, including what John assumed must be the bed. Books, bits of clockwork, beaded things that seemed to serve no purpose other than decoration, something that was almost certainly a bow and quiver of arrows... John did a double take when he saw a human skull resting against the mirror of the small vanity. Strands of jewels (glass, John supposed – surely they weren't real?) were strung back and forth across the ceiling, causing it to glitter in every shade imaginable, and a bright, gauzy curtain hanging in front of the window cast a violet tinge over the entire space. John stared around in amazement for a moment before remembering himself and helping the magician haul himself inside.

Before John could decide on a polite way to ask him where he wanted to be put, the Great Sherlock extricated himself from his grasp and moved around the wagon, trying to... John smiled. Was he cleaning up? He certainly seemed to be. He swept a hand across the camp bed, gathering up the books and papers that had taken up residence there and depositing them onto the vanity next to Bluebell's cage. He straightened them, placing the skull on top of the stack like a macabre paperweight, and moved on to the clothes scattered across the floorboards, which he gathered into a pile and shoved into a far corner. He didn't speak – in fact, he said nothing the whole time he worked, and John let him do as he pleased. More than anything, he was watching the lines of the magician's body, out of both fascination at the grace of his movement and of professional concern. He still nursed his leg slightly, but it seemed to have improved within the last few minutes.

When he had clearly done enough to satisfy himself, he stood up straight and turned, looking at John. His look practically cried out for approval, and John couldn't help but smile at the unexpected, almost boyish innocence of the gesture. “How's the leg then?” he asked, indicating it with a nod of his head.

The Great Sherlock's brow wrinkled, as though he'd forgotten something. Without warning he folded in on himself, slumping onto the bed. “Not broken,” he said, low voice seeming to reverberate throughout the small space. He watched John carefully, evaluating him. “But – ”

“But I should probably still have a look,” John agreed. He sat his bag on a (relatively) clear space on the vanity and turned to his patient. “Lie back.”

The magician did as he was told, staying propped up on his elbows as John pulled the vanity chair up next to the bed. He surveyed the legs stretched out before him. “Where exactly did it hit?” he asked. The Great Sherlock made a vague sort of gesture.

“Not sure,” he said, sounding almost bored. “Bit of a blur, really.”

John had never experienced pain or injury whose location couldn’t be pinpointed, but, he thought with a mental shrug, maybe everyone is different. He wouldn’t put it past someone as eccentric as this man seemed to be to have learnt some kind of ancient Oriental block against pain. He shunted up the right trouser leg and took his patient’s ankle gently in hand.

The subsequent inhale was sharp, but hushed. “All right?” John asked, glancing up. The Great Sherlock nodded tightly and John continued his tactile check of bone, staying over the fabric of the trousers as he travelled upward. He could feel the gastrocnemius muscles twitching as he probed them, but by the time he’d nearly reached the kneecap, he hadn’t found any damage. “I like your stage name,” he said offhandedly. May as well make conversation. Quicksilver eyes honed in on him. “The Great Sherlock,” he continued, shaking his head. “ _Sherlock_. Sounds like one of those daft evil sorcerers from a fairy tale.” He gingerly squeezed the vastus medialis. “How’d you come up with it?”

Silence. When John looked up again, the magician was watching him with a strange expression. It hovered somewhere between curiosity and contempt – a combination John had never before encountered. Finally, he spoke. “It’s my real name,” he said, tone entirely matter-of-fact.

John’s neck flushed and he felt like a prize fool. “Oh,” he managed to choke. “Sorry. I just… sorry.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched and he turned his gaze to the window. “It’s fine,” he said dismissively. “It’s a ridiculous name. Not exactly common. I’m surprised it’s taken this long for someone to make your mistake.”

“… Do people usually assume it’s your given name?” John wondered aloud. Why _would_ they? Sherlock graced him with a small, lopsided grin before inclining his head.

“How’s my leg?”

Too late come even remotely close to saving face, John realized that he’d paused his examination with his palm spread embarrassingly high on Sherlock’s thigh. He snatched his hand back as though burnt, clearing his throat. “Well, you were right,” he said. “No broken bones. You may have some bruising, but unless the pain’s unbearable, you should be able to perform your act.”

Sherlock nodded. “Mycroft will be overjoyed,” he said flatly. John chuckled.

“I’m sure.” He stood and replaced the chair at the vanity. “All right, Bluebell?” he greeted the rabbit. She twitched her pink nose at him in response as he gathered up his new supplies. “Suppose I’d better go get some permanent quarters sorted,” he said. “Few more nights sleeping with the bags and I’ll be needing a doctor myself.”

Sherlock swung his legs around, planting his feet and standing. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he replied, amusement carved deep in his voice. “I think you’re probably as hale and whole as you’ve been in months.”

John stared, wondering what on earth to make of a statement like that. Before he could ask, there was a polite knock at the door of the wagon. When John turned and opened it, Angelo stood on the grass at the bottom of the short kick-stairs. “Sorry, doctor,” he said, “but I was putting up the cart and I saw you’d left this.”

He offered up John’s cane. John took it, his fingers suddenly a bit numb as he realized the complete absence of pain in his leg. “Thank you,” he murmured, looking back at Sherlock. The magician wasn’t looking at him, but a self-satisfied smile played across his lips as he scratched Bluebell’s head through the wire of her cage.

Angelo went and John eased the door shut. There was a thick silence for a beat, then he said, “What did you do?”

Sherlock turned an absolutely disparaging look on him. “Please,” he said, contempt dripping from his voice. “You don’t actually think I magicked away your limp?” John spread his arms, helpless, and Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I’m a circus magician, not a wizard,” he said. “There was nothing wrong with your leg in the first place.”

“I had a limp!” John insisted. “I used a cane!” He brandished it, as though that would help prove his point. Sherlock turned to him, clasping his arms behind his back.

“It was all in your head,” he said. “Traumatic experience in the War, no doubt a few legitimate injuries – it was all bound to affect your mind in some way or another.” He stepped closer, eyes boring into John’s like twin drills.

John swallowed. “Your brother told you I’d been a soldier.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Everything about you told me you’d been a soldier – your stance, your gait, your straight back and affinity for precision. You’re a doctor, highly trained, highly capable, but you weren’t in practise; in fact, you were so desperate for work that you signed on with a _traveling circus_ , but why? There’s no shortage of demand for those in the medical profession. But ah,” his eyes skimmed down John’s arm to his left hand. “A tremor, intermittent but just enough to make you unreliable for regular practise. No one wants a surgeon with shaky hands.” John’s jaw clenched. His fist did too. “The tremor’s real enough, as is your other, genuine wound. But the limp – entirely a product of your mind. It would take a shock to break you of it and here you are.” He gestured to their surroundings. “An accident, a patient in need of your help. And you came.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself.  John sniffed and gave a stiff nod.

“Right.” He looked down at his cane. “Is that what you would have said during your show?” Sherlock’s brow knit. “If you’d gotten round to me, I mean,” John clarified.  “You got interrupted, I know. So is that what you would have told everyone?”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, measuring, gauging, anticipating. “Probably,” he finally said. John nodded, staring at the floor.

“Well.” Another long stretch of nothing. “Better than being a cheat at cards or playing my girlfriend false, I suppose.” He glanced up to find Sherlock grinning once more, and returned the smile. 


	7. The Bungling Illusionist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s luck, John found, manifested itself in mysterious ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually had this one finished for a bit, but at some point I blacked out. When I woke up, days later, I scrabbled in the darkness for the pages, my cold-numbed fingers finally finding them in the black. And so here they are.

When John finally left Sherlock’s wagon and found Mycroft, he was informed that he’d been moved to a car which, until recently, had belonged to a pair of roustabouts. “They’d made themselves rather important amongst the others without my knowledge,” Mycroft told him. “They’ve no business with an entire car to themselves; I had them displaced.” John didn’t ask which roustabouts were in question, but he thought he had a pretty good idea.

He set about making himself at home. It wasn’t a properly insulated sleeping car, so the weather would still present a bit of a problem, but at least he had a real bed. Mycroft had mentioned that he’d considered removing the second bed, but decided John could keep it for patient use. There was a rough table, bolted to the floor, for his supplies and a small chest of drawers for what few clothes he had. John put everything in its place and looked around. Compared to the sensual explosion of Sherlock’s wagon, his new quarters seemed drab and uninteresting. But God strike him down should he complain. 

They were in Crawley for a week. On the second day, John answered a knock at his car door to find the dog-and-pony girl smiling up at him from where she stood on the grass.  “Good morning, Doctor Watson,” she greeted him.

“Molly, is it?” he asked. She nodded in reply. “Anything wrong?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I just thought…” She gestured vaguely back toward the circus site. “I wondered if maybe you’d like to meet the animals.”

John grinned and grabbed his jacket from where it lay draped on his camp bed. “I’d love to.” He hopped down from the car – it really was remarkable, the change in his leg since the magician had shocked the limp out of him – and donned it. “Lead the way.”

She escorted him toward the very back of the train. “They’re all back here,” Molly said, a bit unnecessarily; the smell of straw and sweat and something much more unpleasant indicated the animals’ presence with no uncertainty. She pulled herself up into the first car before he could even offer to boost her and he followed.

The elephants he’d seen during the parade (and later, during the show) stood together behind a sturdy wooden half-door, their thick skin still damp with what must have been quite a recent bath. One of them trumpeted at the sight of Molly and stretched its trunk toward her in greeting. She ran one slender hand across the wrinkled grey flesh and murmured, “Nice wash, was it? You look so smart,” before turning to John. “These are the girls,” she said. “Cardamom and Cinnamon.”

John recalled Sherlock’s comment about Molly insisting on naming the animals and smiled. “Good to meet you,” he said to the elephants with a nod. The elephant not occupied by Molly’s attentions (Cinnamon, he thought) wiggled her trunk at him and he stepped forward, offering a hand.  Cinnamon ignored it and instead plonked the end of her trunk onto his head, ruffling his hair with a snort.

“Oh, she fancies you,” Molly said, smiling. She scratched the rough skin of Cardamom's trunk with her knuckles and indicated Cinnamon with a nod. “She's usually the more standoffish one, really.”

“Lucky me.” John chuckled and reached up to gently bat away the inquisitive appendage. Cinnamon snuffled at his neck. “Sorry, girl,” he said, running his palm over the divots of her trunk. “'Fraid you're not exactly my type.”

The rest of the animal tour was a whirlwind of feet and fur and so, so many names. John made a valiant effort to remember them all: there were Greg's big cats (Caesar and Toby, the lions; the tiger was called Kipling), the horses (Jock, Pongo, Copper, Pluto, Percy, Otto, Lady, and Perdy), and Molly's quite astounding number of poodles. “This is Cyril.” She introduced them one by one, though how on Earth she could tell them apart, John had no idea. They were all tall and white and really very poofy. “That's Philippe and Maximus, over there.”

John grinned. “Bit butch, these names,” he commented.

“Of course,” Molly said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “They’re all boys. Angus and Khan, and the big ones there are Major and Achilles.” She looked them over with obvious pride before her face fell slightly. “And there was Samson, of course, before... well.” Her lips tightened and for a moment John was terrified that she might cry. He'd managed crying women before, but it wasn't his favourite thing in the world. But she straightened and crossed her arms over her thin chest, setting her jaw. “Anyway. Greg said this'd take my mind off the whole mess. I guess not. Shame, but...” She shrugged, letting that be that.

John knelt to rub one of the dogs behind the ear. The poodle's tongue lolled out of its mouth and it smiled gaily at him. “I appreciate the introductions,” he said, hoping to draw her attention once more. “I'm not perfect with names, but I think I remember them all.” He took a stab in the dark. “Eh, Khan old boy?”

Khan yipped once at him and Molly graced him with an approving smile. He let loose the mental breath he'd been holding. “Do you give the grand tour to all the new chaps, then?” he asked.

For the first time, Molly actually looked a bit nervous. John hardly had time to wonder what her trepidation was all about before she said, “Well… not really. Actually I was wondering, do you think you could…” she trailed off, idly drumming her fingers on the top of the nearest crate. “Do you know anything about veterinary medicine, at all?”

John blinked at her. “Um. Not really,” he replied, feeling unaccountably ashamed of the fact. “Why?”

Molly gave a nervous laugh. “Oh. I was just… I know a bit, not much, and I was thinking maybe if something happened, having a doctor around would be good, not just for the people, although obviously, but for the animals as well. Just… in case.”

Now John felt even worse. “I never studied it,” he said. “But if something went wrong, I could take a look, if nothing else. Couldn’t hurt.” She graced him with a brilliant smile, and John hoped to God he could actually be of some use, should he need to be.

 

He was only a few metres away from his boxcar when he noticed a figure standing outside it. A tall, pale figure who, just at the moment, was holding what appeared to be a slab of pork fat to his face.

John greeted him with, “What's happened to you?” Sherlock's visible eye levelled on him with half a look of contempt.

“One of the roustabouts,” he muttered, and lowered the meat. John winced – an impressive bruise was purpling around the magician's left eye and something (maybe a ring, maybe just a callused knuckle) had opened the skin on his cheekbone. “The lower the intellect, the more likely the possibility of... imagined insult.”

“You worked something out about one of the fellows and he didn't like it,” John translated, hoisting himself up into the car.

Sherlock's gaze followed. “An informed deduction,” he admitted before joining him.

The boxcar had no windows, but the open door allowed in plenty of sunlight by which John could see the injury. Sherlock sat on the chair, despite John's offer of the examination table. The cat-like eye was beginning to swell shut as John gently prodded, searching for fractures. “Unbelievably,” he said finally, “he didn't break anything. Your luck middles, looks like.” Sherlock snorted in derision. “It's nothing to sneeze at,” John admonished him. “You won't even need stitches. Bit of antiseptic and a plaster and you'll be right as rain.” He rummaged through his bag, looking for the aforementioned supplies. “Won't look quite your best for the show, but maybe we could get you an eye-patch. It'd be dashing.” He turned around just in time to see the magician's face recompose itself after a brief but unmistakable smile. “Come on, then. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

As dusk was beginning to fall and the circus was coming to life, John sat in his car and wondered whether or not he should try to catch Sherlock’s show again. He had free rein to watch the performances (still hadn’t made it to The Woman’s tent, though), but for some reason felt awkward at the thought of standing about with the other punters in the black tent. By all rights, he knew he should no longer view the magician as an ethereal showman; there were only so many times a doctor can patch a man up before he appears human and nothing else – for John, that number had always been one. But he was afraid that if he watched the things the man could do, he would lose sight of that truth. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

So for the next three days, he abstained. He stood at the back of the big top and applauded the rest of the show – Sally and Syl, who had made a relatively swift recovery under John’s eye, Molly and her ridiculous dogs, Greg and all the others. He enjoyed it, never really growing tired of the spectacle. But he never found his way back to Sherlock’s tent.

 He was leaving the big top, near the end of the show, when he heard raised voices from the black tent. Well, one raised voice, at least – it was answered by a murmur like thunder that could only belong to Sherlock. John inched closer to the tent, warring with himself. He shouldn’t eavesdrop, but Sherlock’s personality, from what he could already tell, rather invited controversy. He seemed the type to get into trouble fairly regularly.

“… heard what you said about my son during your little show,” a man was saying as John got within earshot, “and I ain’t exactly impressed.”

“No refunds,” Sherlock said, and John resisted the urge to sigh. Somehow he thought that wasn’t the point. His theory was confirmed almost immediately.

“I don’t want a sodding refund,” the man growled. “I want you to take it _back_.”

Maybe he was imagining it, but John was almost certain he could hear Sherlock scoff. “I will not. It was true; I’ve no reason to take it back.”

“Oh yeah?” There was a _thwack_ , the sound of meaty impact, and a low grunt.

Before John could react, the magician came flying through the entrance of the tent, landing with an undignified thud at John’s feet. The punter, an enormous fellow with hair like a bottle brush and a sour expression, soon followed, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s see if we can’t change your mind,” he grunted, hauling Sherlock up by his collar and drawing back one brawny fist.

“Stop!” John cried, surging forward and ramming his good shoulder into the man. The impact was enough to make him lose his grip on Sherlock, who staggered backwards, holding his head and groaning. John squared off with the attacker, fully prepared to do whatever it took to head him off. But after they eyed each other for a moment, he must have decided John wasn’t worth the effort; he straightened, spat onto the dirt, and turned away with a dismissive growl.

John turned his attention to Sherlock, unable to decide what he wanted to do first – make sure he was all right or give him a thump of his own for being so reckless. He settled on both, reaching for the taller man’s face even as he said, “That was a damned stupid thing to do, picking a fight with a fellow twice your weight.”

Sherlock looked down at him ruefully, but allowed himself to be examined. “I never apologize for the things I say during my performance.”

“Even so,” John said, and left it at that. “I’m amazed, really, but it doesn’t look like you’ll have a black eye from this one.” He let his hands rest on either side of Sherlock’s face, frowning. “I wouldn’t have taken you for the brawling sort.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted briefly in something like a smile and he stepped away. “I told you,” he said. “Rotten luck.” He straightened his collar and brushed off his sleeves. “I have the unfortunate capacity for being both physically and socially clumsy. Confrontation comes with the territory.” He gave John a perfunctory nod and disappeared into his tent once more. John shook his head and made his way to his boxcar.

 

Sherlock’s luck, John found, manifested itself in mysterious ways. Over the next few weeks (and the next two performance sites), he treated all manner of strange injury and illness. One of Molly’s horses trod on the magician’s foot (“Damnable beasts,” he groused as John gingerly checked each long toe for fractures). He somehow managed to fall from the acrobats’ balancing beam (John didn’t ask). Bumps, cuts, bruises, one particularly curious chemical burn (“An experiment,” he explained)… it seemed as though Sherlock’s capacity for accident was never-ending. By the time John had been with the Baker Street Brothers Circus for two months, he had treated exactly three patients who _weren’t_ The Great Sherlock – and had seen The Great Sherlock over ten times for various pains and maladies.

John wasn’t a suspicious man by nature, but it did seem a bit _odd_.

He mused on Sherlock’s visits as he half-dozed in his boxcar one night. It was very late; the show was over, everything was swept up and tidied, and the performers had either retired to their wagons or found their way into town. It had been two days since he’d last treated Sherlock – he had come to John with green-tinged fingers, convinced of some horrible flesh-eating disease. John managed to work out that he’d only been messing about with chemicals again (he would have thought he’d learnt his lesson, after the burns) and dyed the skin. No treatment necessary –it would fade gradually as his skin sloughed off. As he watched him leave, John marvelled at the way that such a seemingly ingenious man could be so foolish when it came to his own health and safety.

His eyes opened and he sat up on his camp bed, a thought occurring suddenly. He thought back, trying to remember the last visit before the green-fingers fiasco. It had been precisely two days prior. And the one before that…

John laughed out loud. The magician, it seemed, had been coming to see him once every two days exactly. It was a routine, a deliberate schedule. And his woes had only gotten more minor and ridiculous as time went on. But _why_? John puzzled over it for a moment before coming to the simplest – and, as it happened, possibly saddest – conclusion: Sherlock must be lonely. His demeanour didn’t exactly lend itself to making friends, and John doubted most people had the patience to deal with his frankness (especially since it usually bordered on rudeness). John smiled to himself before a knock at the boxcar door drew his attention. He didn’t even have to look to know who it was.

When he opened the door, Sherlock stood there looking up at him, his face nearly expressionless. John didn't ask, only raised his eyebrows expectantly. Sherlock held one hand aloft, extending his index finger. “Bluebell bit me,” he said flatly. John nodded.

“All right.” He stepped back, ushering Sherlock inside.

He took his time, examining the pad of Sherlock's finger while he sat in his chair, back ramrod straight, face carefully composed. John brought the lantern close, the yellow light illuminating the magician's hand. The skin wasn't broken – in fact, the indentation was so shallow that John had to wonder if he'd been bitten at all. But he _hmm_ ed and nodded and looked thoughtful, all the while conscious of Sherlock's eyes on him. Finally he retrieved a small bandage from his bag and set about wrapping the offending digit.

Gaze studiously fixed on his work, he kept his voice level as he said, “You know, you don't have to keep injuring yourself to come see me.” Silence. “You could just... come see me.”

When he finally glanced up, Sherlock was watching him coolly. “I'm sure I've no idea what you're talking about,” he muttered, his voice pitched low.

John grinned. “Bluebell bit you? _Bluebell_? She's a sweet little bunny rabbit.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Her incisors are very sharp,” he said. “She's not sweet. She's a villain.”

John couldn't help but laugh. “Right.” He cinched up the bandage and stood, crossing his arms and giving the magician an appraising look. “Nobody could be that clumsy.”

“I could.”

John shook his head, still smiling at the ridiculousness of it all. “I wouldn't mind if you just popped by to say hello,” he offered. “I usually eat alone.”

“I usually don't eat.” Sherlock eyed him, and John got the terrible impression that he was waiting to see if John would take back his offer. “Bluebell really did bite me,” he added, and the primary school sulk returned to his tone.

“How long did that take?”

Sherlock shifted in his seat, feet shuffling along the wood floor. “About half an hour,” he admitted, turning a tentative smirk up at John.

John rolled his eyes, tempering his exasperation with a smile. “Well,” he said, “maybe you can change your luck a bit from now on.” Sherlock nodded.

“Maybe I can.”


	8. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do women… interest you?” Sherlock finally asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I don't know where I went, but I'm back!

Dinner with Sherlock was a strange affair. The magician insisted they eat in his wagon, claiming that the draft in John's boxcar put him off his food. It didn't make much sense, really, since John never saw him eat anything anyway. But the wagon was strangely cosy and John soon grew accustomed to their new routine. He would collect his supper from Angelo after the last show of the evening and make the short trek to Sherlock's wagon, where Sherlock would usually greet him with a new trick or, more regularly, some strange experiment. He loved examining tobacco ash, and John learned that he was keeping a catalogue of the various sorts he'd encountered in his time with the circus. “114 so far, “ he told John one evening, with something that was almost certainly pride in his voice. “The differences are subtle, but undoubtedly there.” John would praise him for his work and Sherlock would all but preen. Bizarrely, it made John feel good to make Sherlock feel good. He suspected that not many appreciated the effort the magician put into his queer little hobbies.

Bluebell was another source of engagement for Sherlock. Once they'd been eating together for a few weeks, Sherlock confided that one of his longest ongoing experiments was an attempt to make Bluebell glow in the dark. John was unsure at first – surely messing about with her could hurt her? But Sherlock assured him that everything he did was entirely harmless. “She's never complained,” he said dismissively, which didn't exactly ease John's mind. But he supposed that if she'd survived this long, Sherlock must be relatively careful.

And so they carried on, with John eating and Sherlock talking (bragging, really) and it soon became something regular and comfortable. Before John knew it, supper had become his favourite time of day.

They'd gone on that way for nearly two months when he had his first conversation with Irene Adler.

He hadn't spoken to her, really, in the time he'd been with the Baker Street Brothers. He actually didn't spend much time with anyone but Sherlock on a regular basis – he'd chat with Greg sometimes and exchange pleasantries with just about anyone, but he tended to avoid Irene, whether consciously or not, he wasn't sure. She always seemed so predatory, eyeing Sherlock hungrily whenever they happened to be in the same area at the same time. It made John unaccountably uncomfortable.

So when she cornered him on his way from the mess tent to Sherlock's wagon, he wasn't terribly pleased.

“Off to see him again?” Irene asked, voice like honey. She stepped out from her tent just as John was passing it, swathed in a green silken robe with a high collar and ludicrously wide sleeves. She stood with her hands on her hips, smiling at him as though she had a secret. John cleared his throat.

“Miss Adler,” he said with a nod. He'd had manners drilled into him for too long to be impolite to a woman... however much she may not be a lady. Irene's lips twitched.

“I've never seen him attach himself to anyone the way he has to you,” she commented, idly drumming the red-nailed fingers of one hand against her hip. “He usually hasn't got the time of day for the rest of us.”

John wasn't quite sure what to say.

Irene stepped forward, her gait putting John in mind of Greg's cats in their cages. “You've been with us for a while now,” she said. “Why haven't you come to see my show?”

“Never really had an interest,” John replied before he could stop himself. 

Irene laughed, the sound coming from somewhere deep in her throat. “I'm sure,” she murmured. 

“What's so funny, then?” he asked, trying his best not to sound petulant. 

Irene's shapely brows raised. “Not a thing,” she said smoothly. She made her way back into her tent. “You should stop by sometime, though,” she added over her shoulder. “And bring Sherlock. I never can get him in here, but maybe you could find some way to convince him.” Before John could ask what she meant, the tent flipped closed behind her.

He told Sherlock about the encounter as soon as he got to the wagon and Sherlock only made a dismissive wave. “Forget about her,” he said, his eyes trained on the magnifying glass above the tray of ash in front of him. “She's been trying to get me into that tent for ages. Ignore it.”

John munched his supper thoughtfully. “So you've not seen the show, then,” he said, trying to sound as disinterested as he told himself he felt.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, carefully scooping out a fingerful of ash and rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “Women who take their clothes off to make an impression... not really my area.”

John nodded. He'd never met a single man who would give up the opportunity to see a naked woman, but then he had spent quite a lot of time in the military.

A sudden thought occurred to him. It seemed... unlikely, somehow, but he'd never really thought to ask. “Have you got a sweetheart?” he asked. He winced internally at the abruptness of it.

Sherlock's gaze lifted slowly to John's face, and John had the strange feeling that Sherlock would take the glass to his brain if he could. “A sweetheart?” he repeated. His tone of voice suggested that he'd never heard of such a thing in his life.

John nodded. “You've been to plenty of places,” he said. He felt a bit silly, explaining himself. “Have you got someone you go back to now and again? A girl, somewhere?”

The longer Sherlock stared at him, the stupider John felt for asking. It was stupid, he thought, to feel so stupid for asking a perfectly legitimate question. “Forget it,” he said finally, turning back to his food. “Just forget it.”

He felt Sherlock's eyes on him for a long moment before the weight lifted and he could safely look up once more. The magician had, thankfully, gone back to his ash catalogue. John swallowed the bite in his mouth and made a mental note not to bring up women in the future.

 

It turned out that he didn’t have to bring them up – Irene Adler simply inserted her presence into his workaday life without his consent. If she wasn’t extending open invitations to her show (to both John and Sherlock), she was casting wildfire glances at John over breakfast or offering sly comments whenever Sherlock was within earshot. Sherlock blanked her fairly handily, her advances only giving him momentary pause at any given time. But after several weeks of her less-than-subtle behaviour, John was beginning to rankle. 

“Can’t she take a hint?” he groused one afternoon as he sorted through his supplies, taking stock. They’d be packing up for Reading soon and he wanted to make quite sure he was prepared for the journey. “You’d think she could find someone else to pester.”

Sherlock was slung across the patient bed, a slim book held close to his narrow chest, eyes skimming the text but not, John suspected, paying it much attention. “I told you to ignore her,” he said mildly. He flicked the tip of his tongue across his thumb and turned a page. “She’s just doing it for the attention. She’ll get tired of it eventually and go on to someone else.”

John huffed through his nostrils and tried to concentrate on estimating how much need he may have for laudanum from here to Reading. When he glanced back up, Sherlock was gazing at him over the top of his book, something very like amusement in his eyes. “What?” John said.

The magician’s left eyebrow quirked slightly as he said, “Aren’t you the least bit curious about her show?”

John wasn’t sure whether or not to be insulted. He replaced the small bottle of laudanum. “Not particularly. Why?”

He didn’t look back at his friend, but he could feel the continued scrutiny nonetheless. He counted his plasters again. “Well, you’re a proper red-blooded Englishman,” Sherlock said, sounding thoughtful. “But you’ve not been to see The Woman, and so far as I know, you haven’t availed yourself of any of the local women in the towns we’ve passed through.” John could feel his ears burning and mentally cursed himself. He heard Sherlock’s mouth open, heard something beginning in his throat, and turned. He’d sat up straight, eyeing John with the same sort of analytical interest he normally turned on his tricks. But he was hesitating – lips parted, words formed, and no sound whatsoever. 

“Do women… interest you?” Sherlock finally asked.

The question surprised John, but not for the reason he thought it would. He’d opened his mouth to reply automatically, ready to say _of course they do_ and _they always have_ and _they always will_ but he stopped short, certainty catching somewhere at the base of his tongue. He stopped short, and he really _thought_ about it. He’d had sweethearts, certainly. Through university, during the years between school and the War. He’d had sweethearts and girls he knew he’d never see again and even, a few times on the Continent, when the nights seemed blackest and the idea that tomorrow’s sunrise may be his last came creeping into the corners of his brain, he’d followed some of the younger chaps into town and paid for it. He wasn’t proud, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to be ashamed, either.

So of course women interested him. He loved women, loved the roundness of their curves and their smell and the way they tightened around him and clung to him and took the skin of his shoulder between teeth bound in soft, pink lips. He adored women.

And they hadn’t crossed his mind in months. Not since he’d joined the circus.

He’d noticed the women he was among, of course. Molly was very pretty and Anthea undoubtedly had an appealing shape, but the thoughts were transitory, detached, almost completely aesthetic. He realised with a strange rush that he hadn’t really thought about sex once, not in months. 

He blinked and noticed that Sherlock was watching him in anticipation, still waiting for a response. John cleared his throat. “Of course,” he grumbled, because it was mostly true and what else was he meant to say? “I mean, mostly… it’s been a while, but… of course they…” He shook his head and decided to quit while he was ahead. No sense in further embarrassing himself. 

The look on Sherlock’s face was baffling. He was still staring at John as though he had him under his glass, as though there were bits of him that were fascinating and begged to be studied and taken apart and prodded. John willed himself not to think about that. Finally the magician nodded, seemingly satisfied, and lay back across the bed, absorbing himself once more in his book.

John closed up his case, determined that he had well enough of everything, and resolved to do his absolute best to ignore Irene Adler. Somehow conversations that began with her always ended in some kind of discomfort.

 

John’s life rarely went according to his plans, especially lately. Only three days after his resolution, he was faced with a situation that made it extremely difficult – bordering on _impossible_ – to ignore Irene Adler.

He entered Sherlock’s wagon to find her straddling the magician’s lap, wickedly grinning and absolutely stark naked.

He’d come back from retrieving supper for the pair of them (Sherlock likely wouldn’t eat; John rarely saw him do so, it was a miracle he could stand upright) and, had anyone asked him what he expected to find upon ascending the wagon's drop-steps and opening the door, this sight would have been really quite far down on the list – somewhere between "one of Molly's poodles doing the waltz" and "Mycroft."

So when he opened his mouth, he wasn't entirely surprised that the first words out of it were, "What in the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Irene only cast a feral smile over her shoulder at him. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked nearly dead with boredom. "Good supper?" he asked, as though he didn’t have a naked woman on top of him. John looked back and forth between the pair of them, feeling his jaw tighten exponentially the longer he looked. 

"Should I come back later?" he finally asked, hearing the strain in his voice and internally screaming at himself for it. What did he care if Sherlock wanted to conduct a sordid affair with Irene Adler? 

In his wagon. 

Where he had dinner with John every night.

No, this was unacceptable. He stepped inside fully, closing the door behind him. Irene seemed intrigued, but John set the cooling plates next to Bluebell's cage and cast Irene a look that must have clearly stated that this evening was not going to go the way she wanted. "Would you put your clothes on, please," he said. It wasn't really a question, nor a request. He could feel himself slipping into command, hear the captain's edge creeping into his tone. Irene was watching him with a fascinated gleam in her eye… and he couldn't help but notice that Sherlock seemed to be responding similarly. The whole situation was very strange and it was starting to make John feel strange as well. "Now," he insisted.

Irene, unexpectedly, complied. She dismounted, stooping to gather her green robe from where it had pooled on the floor. "You," she said to John as she stood, shrugging into it, "are not nearly as much fun as you could be."

"Nevertheless," John replied. She breezed past him and opened the door, looking back at Sherlock on her way out.

"I'll be seeing you later," she purred, a promise.

Sherlock shrugged. "I expect so," he said flatly. Irene cast one last smile at John and descended. The tail of her robe had scarcely cleared the threshold before John slammed the door shut behind her. Sherlock wore an amused expression that irritated John nearly as much as the Woman's presence had. "That was rude," he said. He didn't sound very much as though he meant it.

Now that Irene was gone, John was beginning to feel more foolish by the second. Why on earth had he done that? He chanced a look at Sherlock, who was still watching him as though he were a particularly entertaining sample of fungus. “I -” he began, not entirely sure what he was planning on saying. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I'm sorry,” he managed. “I should. You have every right. I mean. You could have.” He was babbling now, and should probably stop. Sherlock's gaze never faltered. “I thought you said you weren't interested in her,” John finished. By this time, he was well past Embarrassed and breaching Mortified territory.

Sherlock rose from where he'd been sitting on his cot and went to examine the plates that John had brought. When he saw the food that adorned them, he made a face. “Angelo's cottage pie is not his speciality,” he lamented, turning to John. “And I'm not interested,” he added. “I told you I'm not. But listening... and _heeding_ ,” he clarified, “would seem to be beyond the Woman's capacity.” He sat in the chair at his dressing table and poked one long finger through the wires of Bluebell's cage, scratching her between the ears. “Eat if you like,” he said. “I won't keep you.”

So John sat and John ate, feeling lighter despite himself, and Sherlock fiddled with his chemicals and pet Bluebell and talked John's ear off about his latest discoveries regarding bioluminescent materials. It was the same as it had ever been, and John, eventually and for the moment, was able to banish all thoughts of the bizarre feelings that had been conjured up within him at the sight of the magician and the Woman.


	9. The Hazards of Bridge and Brandy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He caught up with Sherlock and shoved his hands into his pockets, walking with him past the circus site and toward the open field beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! Well, after NaNoWriMo put me out of commission for a month, I'm back on the Centre Ring horse. Which is a good thing for Jill and a very good thing for me. Maybe she'll let me out of my cage long enough for me to do some Christmas shopping.
> 
> Oh yeah, and there's sex in this chapter. Hot, filthy, disgustingly homosexual sex. Or just a bit of frottage.

Neither John nor Sherlock mentioned the incident with Irene Adler. Even Irene hadn't broached the subject again; indeed, she seemed more withdrawn than before, as though she had gotten exactly what she wanted from the encounter. John didn't spare it much thought. He frankly couldn't be bothered with her motivations or the machinations of her inner mind. He had enough to think about.

Primarily, he thought (sometimes, at night, when he was alone in the privacy of his car) about why he had reacted the way he did to what had happened. Seeing Sherlock with Irene... seeing Irene _with_ Sherlock, in a situation like that... it had ignited something deep in his belly, a strange combination of anger and protectiveness and -

Jealousy?

His brain supplied the word once, briefly, about a week after it had happened. _Jealousy_ , it offered, more than a bit sly. John hadn't given himself time to agree or dissent before attempting to shove the idea away. Of course he wasn't jealous. What was there to be jealous of? He wasn't attracted to Irene in the slightest, and it had nothing to do with her looks. Her demeanour and overtly sexual personality landed her very firmly in the camp of 'not his type'. So of course he wasn't -

 _Not jealous of Sherlock_ , his mind (un)helpfully clarified. If the conversation had been spoken aloud, John might have gasped. As it was, his lips tightened into a flat line before he gave an mirthless chuckle and shook his head, though there was no one to see. 

He wasn't... well. He had to admit to himself, however briefly, that he hadn't felt inclined toward much skirt-chasing recently. He'd chalked it up to his new lifestyle, whenever the thought flitted through his mind. But travelling with the circus didn't make bedding women impossible. In fact, he was fairly certain that a few of his fellows did just that, in more than a few of the towns through which they passed. It was just that he himself hadn't felt the need. 

He'd been too busy, patching up the acrobats and seeing to the animals and... well. And spending time with Sherlock.

The image of Irene, naked and spread over the magician's lap, found its way once more into his mind's eye. He nearly snarled aloud and dismissed it. Sherlock hadn't seemed bothered by it, so why should John -

“ _Do women... interest you?”_

Sherlock's question resurfaced and John realised, with no small amount of surprise, that the answer these days seemed to be a resounding _not anymore_. 

But surely that didn't mean that men _did_?

He lay back on his cot, staring up at the bare wooden ceiling of his car. To be with a man... he took a deep breath and tried to imagine the possibility. His mind supplied a form, a faceless but unmistakably masculine shape, hovering over him. He blinked. How would that even... he knew the _basics_ , of course. The fundamentals couldn't be much different than they would be with a woman, save for one or two very distinct physical differences. He thought about pressing his lips against the lips of another man, maybe meeting a scattering of stubble instead of smooth, pink skin. He thought about running his hands across a body much like his own, finding hard lines and a flat expanse of chest, of searching further to dip low and find...

His features twisted slightly. He wasn't so sure the idea appealed to him; he was even less sure that he'd know what to do with it all, even if it did. No, the nameless, faceless shadow man of his imagination wasn't what he wanted. 

Then suddenly, for no reason at all that he could discern, the man became less faceless, less unknown, much more familiar. If it were Sherlock, suspended above him on long arms and staring down with pale intensity and slightly parted lips, passion and fascination etched on his otherworldly features -

Oh. _Oh_.

Yes, that didn't seem off-putting in the slightest, John realised. His face flushed and he licked his lips thoughtfully. A tight, heavy, heated knot was forming in his stomach – and just below – at the thoughts racing through his brain. He must be mad.

His hand wandered almost absently downward, palming his growing erection. He considered ignoring it, considered shoving the thoughts aside and forbidding himself from even considering it. But it was too late now; he squeezed once, gently, and exhaled at the swelling he felt there. 

_Well. This is inconvenient_.

It became even more inconvenient a half-moment later, when a sharp knock rattled the door of his car. John sat up straight, hand flying away from his groin as though he were back at university, caught out by an over-curious bunkmate. He stood, glancing down and discovering that, happily, he wasn't in such a state as to be completely obvious. “Just a moment,” he called, pulling his shirt from his trousers and letting it fall loosely over the flies, just in case. 

Padding to the door, he heaved it open and looked down to see Sherlock standing on the grass below, accompanied by Mrs. Hudson, the little old lady who played the calliope. “Good evening, doctor,” she greeted him, all smiles and oblivious cheer. He nodded and chanced at look at Sherlock, who turned away just as their eyes met, a smirk lifting the corner of his lips. John was very nearly mortified – of _course_ Sherlock knew what he'd nearly been up to. Hell, he was clever enough that he probably knew exactly what John had been thinking. He could die.

“What can I do for you?” he asked Mrs. Hudson, hoping his voice sounded steadier than it felt.

“Do you, by any chance, play bridge?” she asked. The question was so entirely unexpected that, for a moment, all other thoughts fled John's mind.

He shook his head dumbly and Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Oh, that is disappointing,” she said. Sherlock glanced at her.

“I told you he didn't,” he said, but his tone lacked the self-satisfaction that was usually present when he was proved to be right about something. 

“I know you did, and of course you're right,” Mrs. Hudson lamented.

“What's all this about?” John asked, feeling very much left out of the proceedings.

Mrs. Hudson looked back up at him apologetically and Sherlock answered for her. “My brother and Mrs. Hudson engage in a semi-annual game of bridge,” he explained. “Mrs. Hudson wins by an embarrassing margin every time, but Mycroft insists on continuing the rivalry.”

“The last person to partner with me was young Miss Hooper,” Mrs. Hudson continued. “But I think perhaps things got a bit too heated for her last time.”

“She cried,” Sherlock offered. 

“So I need a new South,” Mrs. Hudson said. John nodded, despite not being entirely sure what she meant. “I think one of the jugglers has agreed to partner with your brother this time around,” she mentioned to Sherlock, “although I'm sure he'd rather it be you.” 

Sherlock pulled a face. “Bridge is obscenely dull,” he said. “I only ever watch the occasional game to see the look of abject despair on Mycroft's face.” Mrs. Hudson slapped his arm lightly, but even John could tell that she was fighting back a giggle. “You should come watch,” Sherlock said to him then, looking up at him fully for the first time since he'd opened the door. “If you've nothing else to do.”

John couldn't tell whether the teasing edge in Sherlock's tone was all in his head or not, so he decided to ignore it. “Yeah, all right,” he agreed. “Where will it be?”

“The big top,” Mrs. Hudson replied, then sighed. “If I can find myself a partner, that is...” 

“Sorry I couldn't help,” John said. Mrs. Hudson was sweet, and he genuinely was sorry. “Maybe if I watch the game, I'll pick up enough to step in next time.” Mrs. Hudson nodded and headed toward the big top with a wave. John looked back at Sherlock, who was watching him with a penetrative gaze that made the skin beneath John's shirt prickle. “I suppose I'll see you there?” he said, forcing levity he didn't feel into his tone. 

Sherlock nodded. “Mycroft really hasn't a chance,” he mused, “but it's always a laugh to see him try. They wager as well, so there's no telling what he'll lose this time.” He turned away and strode toward his wagon. “I'll see you there,” he called, distance and direction making his voice faint. 

John offered a small wave, despite knowing that Sherlock couldn't see him, and closed the car door once more. He leaned his forehead against the wood, drawing in a deep breath. His erection had long since disappeared, of course, but there was a lingering pull in his shoulders, a tightness in his hips that ensured he wouldn't be forgetting it any time soon.

 _Well,_ he thought, straightening and tucking his shirt back into his waistband, _at least I have plans for the evening now_. If anything could distract him from the strange thoughts that had recently invaded his mind, he reasoned, surely it was a game of bridge.

 

When John reached the big top later that evening, he discovered that the bridge game was, apparently, a fully-fledged Event. Nearly everyone had turned out to watch – all the performers were crowded into the centre ring, and it seemed that most of the roustabouts and other laymen were there as well. John scanned the small crowd and saw Sherlock cloistered to the side, hands in his pockets, leaning against one of the tent's supports. His eyes found John's and he raised his eyebrows, a small smile flitting across his face. John considered joining him before remembering that this was meant to be taking his mind _off_ of Sherlock, so he simply gave a wave and went to stand with Greg and Molly, who stood with their heads together, speaking low and furtive.

“What's going on here?” he asked as he approached, and Molly jumped a bit, glancing over her shoulder and looking a bit guilty.

Greg, on the other hand, was entirely unabashed. “Bets,” he replied, showing John the slip of paper he and Molly had been pouring over. “It's not as fun as it used to be,” he admitted as John scanned the odds. “Most of us have been around for too long to risk betting on the boss anymore.”

John laughed. “Is he really that bad?” he asked, watching as a couple of the roustabouts set up a table and four chairs amidst the sawdust. 

Greg shook his head. “It's not so much as he's _bad_ ,” he clarified. “Game wouldn't go on as long as it does if he was bad. It's just - ”

“Mrs. Hudson's better,” Molly finished, and Greg nodded in agreement, the pair of them smiling at each other. “Oh look,” Molly said, pointing past John to the entrance of the tent. “Here they come.”

Mycroft entered first, head held high, all stately decorum intact (despite a list of odds he surely knew must exist). Gary the juggler, a big man with wild, dark hair hedging into grey, followed, looking for all the world as though he'd love to be anywhere else. Even John, who was new to the whole affair, could tell that it had taken quite a lot of convincing to get him to participate. John wondered if maybe Mycroft had paid him.

Mrs. Hudson entered next, looking pleased as anything with her new partner, who followed close behind. It was Anthea, Mycroft's watchdog, and she looked even less impressed at her new station than Gary did. John thought maybe Mycroft and Anthea's working relationship, close as it was, might negatively affect Mrs. Hudson's chances, but from the venomous looks Anthea was shooting her employer, he quickly determined that it wouldn't be a problem at all.

The players sat at the table, each across from his or her partner. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft sat cross-cornered from one another, and Mycroft looked down his nose (quite literally) at the elderly woman, who returned his gaze with an ever-friendly smile.

“What's the wager, then?” Greg called, clearly delighted at the goings-on. The crowd murmured a second to the question, and Mycroft regarded them all with a coolly detached expression.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he replied, raising his voice so that everyone could hear him, “has asked that, should she emerge victorious, I supply her with a bottle of my finest brandy.” 

The crowd made appreciative noises; at John's undoubtedly baffled expression, Molly leaned in close to whisper an explanation. “Mr. Holmes loves his brandy,” she said. “He's got a big stash of it somewhere – nobody's allowed to touch it, even.” John nodded in understanding.

“Should I emerge victorious,” Mycroft continued, and turned a deep frown toward the back of the crowd, whence someone had released a bark of laughter. John glanced across the tent at Sherlock, who was studiously staring at the floor with a wide, amused grin. “Should I emerge victorious,” Mycroft repeated, his words like the edge of a sword, “Mrs. Hudson will forfeit all her monetary earnings with the Baker Street Brothers Circus for a full six months.”

Amidst a polite smattering of applause, John leaned toward Greg and Molly. “That's horrible!” he exclaimed. The cards were being dealt. “She's a little old woman, how can he be all right with taking money from her?”

The lion tamer gave him a sympathetic look. “I wouldn't worry, mate,” he said. “Old Mrs. Hudson hasn't lost a game of bridge since God was in short pants.”

John would have to take their word for it – for his part, he thought it was awful that Mycroft would even consider the possibility.

The game began. As he had told Mrs. Hudson, John knew nothing about the game and was quickly lost. There seemed to be some sort of bidding war going on initially, but for the life of him John couldn't figure out what it was for. So he simply let himself get caught up in the crowd's reactions and Mycroft's increasingly sour expression.

So caught up was he that, for a time, Sherlock never even entered his mind – that was, until he felt a hand take his wrist and, on turning, found the magician standing close behind him, eyes still trained on the foursome in the middle of the ring. His eyes never left the game, but he brought his lips close to John's ear, murmuring, “It's lost from here. Come with me.” He pulled gently, a soft suggestion, and John followed him from the tent. For a brief moment he wondered if he should worry about what everyone else would think of them leaving together, but the thought soon dissipated. Surely no one paid that much attention.

Once outside, Sherlock released him, but not without his fingertips dragging across the pulse at John's inner wrist, raising gooseflesh along his arm. He tried to shake it off, scampering to catch up with the magician, who walked ahead of him with long strides. “What are we doing?” he asked, though he knew he didn't particularly care.

“I thought we might go for a walk,” Sherlock replied, not meeting his gaze. John blinked, incredulous. A walk? Now? Why on earth? But he caught up with Sherlock and shoved his hands into his pockets, walking with him past the circus site and toward the open field beyond.

It was a truly gorgeous night. Just _almost_ too warm, and certainly would have been had John elected to wear his jacket. As it was, in his shirtsleeves and braces, he was quite comfortable. Sherlock was, of course, impeccably dressed in full suit, waistcoat included. John was amazed that he hadn't burst into flames. Sherlock walked with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes trained before him, for a while before coming to a full stop. John took a few more steps before he noticed that he was walking alone, then turned back. “What is it?” he asked. Sherlock stood by a tree stump, nearly hidden among the knee-height grass through which they'd been walking. With a flourish, Sherlock stooped toward the stump and produced from within it a glass bottle, nearly full of dark amber liquid. 

“Oh look,” he said, flat voice belying the practised astonishment of his tone. “I seem to have found some very fine brandy.”

John stared at the bottle for a beat before bursting into delighted laughter. The skin at the corners of Sherlock's eyes wrinkled up before he joined him, stepping forward with a low chuckle. “Now that,” John said, taking the proffered bottle, “is the best sort of magic I know.”

“It does serve a dual purpose,” Sherlock agreed. “It offers us the opportunity for a superb evening, but more importantly, it will make Mycroft furious once he realises that he has nothing to offer as tribute for losing his bridge game.”

“This is Mycroft's?” John asked, only half-feigning his shock. When Sherlock nodded, John shook his head, “Oh, you are a bad brother,” he admonished, but removed the stopper from the bottle nonetheless, raising it to his nose and breathing deeply. “My God, it's fantastic.”

Sherlock waved a magnanimous hand at him. “Have some,” he offered. “I'm afraid I don't have any glasses...”

John raised an eyebrow, the bottle pausing at his lips. “Can't conjure some up, then?” he asked, tone teasing, near flirting and not caring a bit. He took a long pull from the bottle, sighing in contentment as the alcohol warmed him from brow to belly. “Oh, that's lovely,” he sighed. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock watching him, silvery eyes soft, barely-there smile on his lips. “D'you want some?” John asked, holding the bottle out to him. But Sherlock shook his head. 

“In a bit,” he said. He continued walking then, passing John and heading further into the field. John shrugged and followed, having another sip of the stolen brandy.

They walked without speaking, the quiet disturbed only by the crunch of their feet in the grass, the occasional nightbird's call, and the quiet splash of brandy against the bottle as John drank. Sherlock finally indulged, taking smaller sips than John, and they passed the bottle back and forth amiably as they strayed further and further from the circus site. 

The moon was very nearly full and fortunately quite bright; their way was lit with no trouble at all, although the more John drank, the unsteadier the ground became. Soon he was placing one foot very deliberately in front of the other, his head spinning just enough to make him giggle at the sound of his own steps. Sherlock's rumbling laugh joined his and there they were, the pair of them, full-grown men laughing at nothing out in a field in the middle of the night.

John stumbled then, began to fall, and in a detached sort of way noticed that the ground wasn't rushing up to meet him quite the way it should. Then he noticed the pressure of an arm slung around his chest and realised that Sherlock had caught him as he fell. A moment later, he realised that Sherlock hadn't released him, and that they were standing quite close to one another, Sherlock's arms around him, his own arms limp and useless at his sides. 

The nearly empty bottle hit the ground with a thump.

“John,” Sherlock murmured, almost too low to hear. John stared up at him, thinking a half-dozen things at once. He thought about the closeness of their bodies, considered how strange it should feel and how strange that it _didn't_ feel strange. He thought vaguely about the tingling sensation at the tips of his fingers, of how warm his head felt and how the moon made the edges of Sherlock's hair somehow gleam white. He was drunk, he had to be, he'd been drinking straight alcohol for nearly an hour and now Sherlock's face was very near his and his mouth was on Sherlock's mouth.

For a moment, everything was a distant, removed sort of wet warmth. John hadn't even closed his eyes, but as Sherlock's lips moved on his he did, raising his hands (were they his? They seemed so far away) to take twin fistfuls of Sherlock's jacket. Sherlock's grip on him tightened, fingers curling in the fabric of John's shirt, and John _must_ have been drunk because he would have sworn that in that moment, he heard music rising from the circus site across the field. The breeze lifted Sherlock's curls and they brushed against John's forehead, making him laugh against the other man's lips.

Sherlock pulled back then, pale eyes made dark by the night and the brandy and good God the _kissing_ and he said, “John,” once more, as though his entire vocabulary had been reduced to that one word. To his name.

John swallowed hard. His tongue tasted like brandy and Sherlock's tongue. He felt giddy. He felt insane. He was on his way to hard and he knew that Sherlock knew it. He nodded. “Yes,” he said, although he wasn't sure he'd been asked a question. He only knew that the answer was, “Yes, God yes.”

 

It seemed to take twice as long to get back to the circus as it had to walk away from it. They kept stopping, hands scrabbling at each others' sleeves and collars, mouths pressed together sloppily, teeth scraping along lower lips and fingers tangling in hair. John didn't even know what it was they were heading toward; he only knew that he had to get back, had to get Sherlock someplace where they could be unseen, hidden away safe and clean and if he didn't get horizontal soon, he couldn't be held accountable for what he might do.

As it turned out, he wasn't mad – music had indeed begun to play from within the big top. At the outskirts of the site the men stopped, listening. Above the music they heard a voice that, impossibly but undoubtedly, belonged to Mycroft. The tune was a familiar one, particularly to John – “It's A Long Way To Tipperary” had been one of his favourites for a time during the War.

He and Sherlock clung to each other as Mycroft, clearly livid, forced the lyrics out. “What...?” John managed.

Sherlock chortled. “The brandy,” he said between short breaths. “He didn't have the brandy. She must have made him sing.” They dissolved into mirth again and Sherlock pulled John along by one of his braces, making for his wagon.

They flung themselves inside, the door's closing shaking the entire wagon. From her cage, Bluebell snuffled irritably at the intrusion, but was ignored. Sherlock collapsed onto his back on the cot, pulling John along on top of him and grunting as their bodies made contact. John could not stop kissing him.

Now that they were here, in the darkness of the wagon, everything made perfect sense. The lack of interest in the women of the towns they'd seen, the irrational jealousy at seeing Sherlock with Irene, the growing fascination with him. John was absolutely mad about Sherlock, and at the moment he didn't give damn what that might make him. Not even half a damn. Because they were pressed together on Sherlock's cot, the springs creaking beneath them as they clutched and pulled and John was fairly sure he'd just ripped a few buttons from the magician's shirt. 

“John,” Sherlock gasped, their hips rubbing together in a way that made John's already wobbling head spin. He was hard, very hard, and could barely process the fact that Sherlock was too. Sherlock's jacket hung off his shoulders, only half removed, shirt open to his belt, pale torso deliciously exposed. John had managed to help him push down his braces so that they hung loosely at his waist before pulling his own shirt and vest over his head. Through a veil of alcohol he remembered that no one had seen him shirtless since his injury, but Sherlock's clever eyes only skated briefly across his scar before returning to his face, which he cupped in his enormous hands before pulling him down for another kiss. 

They ground together then, John's hands curled in the linens of the cot on either side of Sherlock's head, scrabbling for purchase as he pushed himself against Sherlock, sure that his cock would rip through his trousers at any moment. Sherlock groaned into his mouth, low and guttural, and broke the kiss, grasping at John's shoulders. A sheen of sweat formed between their bare chests and John, God help him, loved the way the pressure felt with no breasts to break up the friction. He braced his knees on either side of Sherlock's thin legs, rutting with abandon that should have been embarrassing. His eyes bore into Sherlock's. He came then, came in his trousers like a schoolboy and couldn't have cared less because Sherlock, judging from the way his neck flushed red and the sounds that escaped his mouth, was coming too. 

John collapsed against him, breath ragged, body heavy with fatigue and alcohol and satisfaction. “God, Sherlock,” he gasped, breath hot and damp against the other man's neck. “God.”

The last things he felt, before slipping into unconsciousness, were Sherlock's long fingers passing through his hair and Sherlock's lips against his neck, murmuring something he couldn't quite hear. Then all went dark.


	10. Love by the Light of a Rabbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John inhaled slowly. He had gotten drunk. He had gone to bed with Sherlock. He was still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this chapter is pretty much nothing but sex.

When John woke, he didn't open his eyes immediately. He lay still for a long moment, breathing and listening and trying to pin down exactly why he was lying in a bed that wasn't his own. There was a soft, distant sort of pattering sound surrounding him – it had begun to rain during the night. John's head ached, but from what he remembered of the night before, he could feel a lot worse.

 _The night before_. John inhaled slowly. He had gotten drunk. He had gone to bed with Sherlock. He was still there. His eyes fluttered open very gradually. The wagon was shrouded in pale, clouded light. He could smell the rain; the window was cracked open a bit, letting in the scent of damp and early morning. Sherlock leaned near the window, shoulder pressed against the wall. He was smoking a dark, pungent cigarette and staring out at the rain, wearing only a colourful, eccentric Oriental robe, open at the front, that clung to him and gathered in the folds of his crossed arms. When John looked toward him, Sherlock didn't stir, but blew out a thin stream of smoke before saying, “Show's off for a few days. No one comes to see us in the rain.”

“Sherlock – ” John began, but the magician turned to him then, dropping his arms, and John's voice stuck in his throat. He wasn't exactly unaccustomed to nudity, even of the male variety – one became inured to that sort of thing quickly in the Army – but seeing Sherlock in this way seemed very different somehow. He was groggy and still wore his (embarrassingly stiff) trousers from the previous evening, but he felt himself stir anyway.

The magician took a step toward him, looming over the cot. “You'd been drinking,” he began, and despite the lack of emotion in his voice, John wasn't blind to the wrinkle between his brow, the tiniest indication that he was worried. He reached out, taking the other man's hand gingerly.

“It wasn't the brandy,” he assured him, voice hushed. Even as he said it, he realised it was true. Sherlock smiled then, just a small smile, but it was enough. John tugged on his hand and he sat on the edge of the cot, the springs complaining quietly beneath him. To his slight surprise, Sherlock bent low and kissed him. It was a soft thing, closed-mouthed and almost sweet.  Sherlock tasted of smoke. “I'm a mess,” he muttered, releasing Sherlock and lifting the linens. Sherlock rose and produced a bowl of water (still warm, thankfully) and a flannel. He stepped back and John moved to undo his flies, then realised that Sherlock was still watching him, his expression very plainly one of mild interest. John flushed and cleared his throat.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “You're embarrassed?” he asked, eyes flitting down the length of John's bare chest to his trousers. “I think the time for that has passed, John, don't you?”

John considered the magician's exposed state and the distinct possibility that they would be interacting very nakedly with each other very soon and shrugged, flicking open the buttons on his trousers. He pretended not to notice when Sherlock's inquisitive gaze grew dark.

As soon as he'd cleaned himself up, Sherlock scooped up his discarded trousers and threw them into a corner with his own things before climbing back onto the cot. John's cock, interested only in an abstract way until now, offered a distinct throb somewhere near the base, as though it were considering swelling properly. Sherlock straddled him, and at the scrub of hair and flesh against his upper thighs, John began to harden. The taller man braced himself, hands on either side of John's head, and stared down at him. “No shows,” he revisited, lowering his face until his dark fringe just brushed John's forehead. “We'll have quite a lot of time to ourselves.”

It was a blatant invitation, and one John's body seemed perfectly happy to accept. His cock gave a merry sort of throb, but his mind seemed to have other ideas. “I'm a doctor,” he protested, and it sounded a half-hearted protest, even to himself. “Someone might still go ill. Or get hurt.”

Sherlock's lips found a patch of skin just beneath his ear and mouthed at it experimentally. John's hips wriggled of their own volition. “Then perhaps it's time you considered a change in career,” Sherlock offered, lips buzzing against John's skin. Before John could ask what he meant, he felt the warm, wet tip of Sherlock's tongue against his neck and groaned, the question clattering to a halt in his throat. But Sherlock seemed to know what he meant, clever bastard, and clarified, “I could use a lovely assistant.”

Even through the mist of his arousal, John had to laugh, sharp and short. “Not bloody likely,” he said, trying to keep his mind on the conversation. Sherlock was kissing a slow, torturous path down his torso now. It was damned distracting and didn't do anything to alleviate the pressure in his cock. “I d-don't think I quite meet the qualifications.”

Sherlock stopped his ministrations somewhere near John's navel and glanced up at him, quicksilver eyes incredulous. “Nonsense,” he said, breath puffing warm across the sensitive skin of his stomach. “I've never met anyone half so lovely as you.”

It was stupid, John knew, for a man of his age to colour at a line like that. But his face and neck flushed an embarrassing shade of red. He began to say, “Sherlock,” but only got as far as the first half of the word before the magician's lips closed around him. “Ungh,” he offered instead, head falling back against the lumpy pillow. Oh, it _had_ been a long time since someone had done this for him. And something about the fact that it was Sherlock doing it made his skin buzz.

He squeezed his eyes shut but he could imagine it, the wild dark hair bobbing down the length of his erection as he applied pressure in turns, hard and soft, up and down, taking the whole of him in before sliding back up to swipe his tongue across the head. He couldn't look. He would come too soon, if he looked.

But he was powerless to stop the feeling, especially when Sherlock shifted and he felt the other man's straining cock against his leg. He groaned aloud at that, gasping when he realised Sherlock was rubbing against him intentionally while moaning around his mouthful. Oh, that wouldn't do at all. John enjoyed an orgasm as much as the next bloke, but he'd always been very concerned about his partner's pleasure as well – and if that partner happened to be another man, well, that changed nothing.

“Let me,” he managed, grabbing at Sherlock's shoulders in a vain attempt to haul him upward. “Let me.” Sherlock pulled off his cock and stared up at him, lips wet, hair a mess. John nearly pushed him back down at the sight, but shook his head, trying to clear it. Sherlock rose to his knees and John struggled up into a sitting position, grabbing a fistful of the hair at the back of Sherlock's neck. He kissed him then, the sting of his own arousal still heavy on Sherlock's tongue, before shifting about so that he could push Sherlock down onto his back.

The robe twisted, tangling around Sherlock's legs. He swore under his breath and repositioned, attempting to dislodge it. John finally offered a wordless suggestion, reaching to wrest it from the magician's shoulders with no small amount of force and wrenching it out from beneath him. Sherlock watched it pool on the floor next to the bed with a strangely morose look, but seemed to forget all about it as John slid swiftly down his body, tongue dragging a strip of heat behind it. Sherlock's skin tasted salty and felt smooth, the dark tangle of hair leading to his groin an unexpected oasis in an otherwise pale landscape. John gripped the other man's cock before he could stop to think too much about it, his hand encircling the base. This is how he'd begin with himself, he reasoned. Surely it couldn't be too terrifically different.

Sherlock groaned, raising a hand to cover his eyes as John gave him a few experimental pumps, watching the foreskin slide up and over the head and back down again. _All right, Watson_ , he told himself, _just take it slowly._

He did. Wrapping his lips around the head, he sucked lightly, giving himself time to adjust to the singular presence in his mouth. Sherlock hummed in a contented sort of way, his hips wiggling as though he'd like to thrust, but was stopping himself doing so. John appreciated that; he wasn't sure how quickly he'd be able to take the whole length. He began to slide his mouth up and down, bits at a time, trying to relax the muscles in his throat. At the apex, he was met with something bitter and warm – pre-ejaculate, he realised. The Great Sherlock was writhing and leaking, for _him_ , because of _what he was doing_. He reached between his own body and the cot to wrap his hand around his own cock, pulling it in time with the rhythm of his mouth. “God,” Sherlock breathed, eyes still shielded by his palm. “God, John.”

It sounded like a prayer. John pulled off long enough to murmur an agreeable, “I know,” before rubbing the underside of his tongue across the opening of the head. Sherlock's hips jerked and he let out a deep yelp, something that was almost like a word but not quite, and another bulb of liquid emerging from the slit. John tightened his grip on himself, tugging his cock now with short, sharp jerks that made the muscles in his thighs twitch. His free hand he pressed hard across Sherlock's stomach, in the space between navel and groin. He was going to come very soon, and he'd be perfectly pleased if the magician would join him.

A rumble of thunder echoed the growl beginning deep in Sherlock's chest. John felt a large hand groping at his hair, heard Sherlock grunt his name once, and pulled off. He slid his hand down to work Sherlock's cock in earnest, feeling his own orgasm gathering just behind his balls. Pressing his forehead against Sherlock's hip, breathing in the smell of him, he let out a moan that was much louder than he'd intended and came. As he did, he felt wet heat spilling over his other hand and cracked an eye open to watch sidelong, marvelling at the sight of Sherlock's thick seed covering the inner ring of his fist.

Their breathing slowed below another crash of thunder. John let his muscles relax, let himself sag against the lower half of Sherlock's body. From above he heard a contented hum, felt fingers brushing the top of his head. He pushed himself up, keeping his wrist bent in an attempt to stop himself smearing anything on the linens, and reached down beside the camp bed, blindly searching for the previously discarded flannel. He found Sherlock's robe instead; but his fingers had hardly made contact before Sherlock warned, “Don't! It's silk.”

John glanced at him, eyebrow raised. Sherlock had pushed himself up onto his elbows, imperious expression suggesting that the very idea of using his robe for such a tawdry task was unthinkable. John shrugged and awkwardly stood, padding to the vanity where Sherlock had deposited the bowl of water and flannel wiping both hands on it. When he looked back, Sherlock had stooped to gather the robe and was pulling it back on. “You look a proper wizard in that thing,” John commented. Sherlock offered a small smirk. “Why don't you wear it for your shows?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Don't be ridiculous,” he said. “This is leisurewear.”

“For the King of Siam, maybe.”

“Shows what you know,” Sherlock replied. His tone was flat, but unless John was very much mistaken, he was _teasing_. “This robe's from China.”

John shook his head, smiling, and finished cleaning himself before tossing the flannel to Sherlock. He caught it deftly and John leaned against the vanity, poking his finger through Bluebell's cage to scratch her between the ears. She nibbled something green and amiably ignored him. “So,” John said, not looking up, “I think we need to talk.”

The soft scraping sound of cloth against flesh stopped, and although John didn't raise his gaze, he knew Sherlock had stilled momentarily. After a moment of silence, the sound continued. “What about?”

Finally John looked at him. Sherlock had finished wiping up and was flinging the flannel onto the pile of clothing in the corner. He reached into one of the sleeves of his ludicrous robe and produced another dark cigarette and a match. Smoke wreathed his head for a moment before a damp breeze from the window caused it to dissipate. “What is this, Sherlock?” John asked. He felt absurd, standing naked in a wagon as the storm gained momentum outside, but if there was ever a good moment to talk about it, now seemed the time. “This, what we're doing,” he clarified when Sherlock cocked his head quizzically. “I've never had a man for a sweetheart before.”

Sherlock snorted, cigarette smoke billowing from his nostrils and momentarily giving him the look of a great silken-clad dragon. “Is that what you think we are?” he asked, sounding supremely bored. “Sweethearts?”

John's lips pursed. He really needn't sound _quite_ so derisive. “What then?” he asked. “What word would you use, exactly?”

“I wouldn't,” came the answer. “There are no words, no titles, no monikers for this. None that are relevant, anyway.” He raised the cigarette to his lips, the tip glowing briefly as his eyes bore into John's. “You are mine. Entirely.” Before John could reply, he added, “Happily, I'm entirely yours as well. Works out quite nicely.”

It wasn't the most romantic thing John could have imagined, but it lit something hot and tight in his chest just the same. “What will we tell people?”

“If they should ask, tell them to mind their sodding business. Besides, I'm relatively sure everyone thought it was going on anyway.”

John sputtered. “Sorry?” Sherlock shrugged.

“Outside my shows and your medical pursuits, we spend a great deal of time together. Most, actually,” he reasoned. “It's not an unnatural assumption.”

John folded his arms across his bare chest. “They can't have... surely...” Sherlock watched him, looking mildly amused. “It's _illegal_ ,” John finished. He was changing the subject, and why that mattered he couldn't have said, but it suddenly seemed important. The crease between Sherlock's brow, on the other hand, suggested it didn't matter in the slightest.

“Do you really think the laws of man apply here?” he asked, gesturing to the wall of the wagon and the circus beyond. “We don't linger. We're here and gone within a week at the outside. We are self-contained. There'll hardly be a regular sweep by the local force, just to make sure no one's buggering.” Heat flared across John's face and Sherlock considered him. “Anything else?”

John sighed heavily. Perhaps it was his time in the Army – perhaps it was the natural cynicism borne in anyone who'd seen a good portion of the world and what it had to offer – but he couldn't help but feel that there was no possible way it could be as simple as that.

 

For nearly a month and a half though, it _was_. The rain stopped, eventually. When the ground was nearly dry, the circus started up once more and John still watched Sherlock’s act when he could. In fact, very little at all changed between them – they still ate together, they still talked, Sherlock still prattled on about his experiments. John still patched up the performers and (when he could) the animals.

But at night, when the crowds had gone and the lights were put out and everything was still, John crept back to Sherlock’s wagon and they tumbled into bed, pulling and pressing and covering one another with kisses and jealous heat. It swiftly turned from surreal to routine; after only a week or so, John found he could barely remember a time when he couldn’t gather the magician into his arms, to tug at his lips with his teeth and sigh against his skin. It felt as natural as the thrum of the train, as the spritely tune of the big top.

 And John couldn’t have been happier, when Sherlock finally perfected his luminescent formula, to fall asleep curled up with his genius in the soft light of Bluebell’s glowing form.


	11. Star Charts and Mortal Coils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They walked in silence back to the circus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features minor character death, Jim and Seb being asswipes, and flagrant usage of the word "cock". Just in time for Boxing Day.

Bluebell was buried the next day.

“As it turns out,” Sherlock informed John once he'd awoken to find the magician stone faced and hunched over the small cage, “an infusion of zinc sulphide is quite toxic to a rabbit who licks it off of her fur.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and held him tightly. The other man didn't cry – barely sighed – but John had a distinct feeling that he wasn't taking it well. “Do you want to bury her?” he asked. Sherlock's dishevelled hair shook as he nodded. “Have you got a box?” John asked, casting his eyes around the wagon. Sherlock nodded again, gesturing toward a pile of what John had always assumed was rubbish.

“In there,” he said. “Should be a hat box. My last topper came in it.”

John found the box with relatively little trouble as Sherlock gingerly wrapped Bluebell in a few of his colourful silken handkerchiefs. “I can always get more,” he reasoned. John didn't even think of arguing. They arranged the still faintly-glowing body inside the hat box and Sherlock, cradling it in his arms, followed John out of the wagon. They set out alongside the train, still and silent for the moment, and made their way toward a small patch of nearby forest.

Almost immediately, they encountered Molly, leaving the elephant car and looking this way and that, as though searching for something. “Oh, hello.” She flashed them a smile that very nearly looked guilty. “What are you two up to?” she asked, before they could beat her to it.

Sherlock stayed quiet, so John offered, “We're just on our way... well.” He glanced at the hat box, which Sherlock clutched to his chest. “There's been an accident. Bluebell's gone.”

“Gone?” Molly looked confused for a moment before her gaze wandered to the box and grew wide. “Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth and tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh, no,” she said, voice muffled. She reached out a hand to Sherlock as though to comfort him, but when he glowered, she shrank back. “I'm so sorry. Are you going to bury her?” When John nodded, she said, “Could I come with you? I always liked her.”

Sherlock only shrugged mutely. “Of course,” John said. Then he remembered the furtive way in which she'd exited the car and added, “Unless you were going somewhere...?”

Molly went ever so slightly pink. “No, no,” she said, a bit too emphatically as the trio continued to walk. “Not at all.”

At just that moment, Greg's head poked out from the big cat car, a short ways down the train. His bright look dulled quickly as he saw the three of them, noting Molly's tearful, flustered face. “What's going on?” he asked, leaping down and taking Molly gently by the shoulders. John glanced at Sherlock, but the magician was staring down at the box in his arms and seemed unaware of the familiarity between the two performers.

“Oh, it's Bluebell,” Molly explained, her voice breaking as she spoke of the departed. “She's had an accident and... and...” Her eyes grew newly wet and she sniffled, gesturing to the box. A crease formed between Greg's brows.

“Poor girl,” he muttered, and John wasn't entirely sure whether the lion tamer was referring to Molly or Bluebell. “Mind if I tag along? You know – pay my respects.” He hadn't released Molly yet.

At this point, John was quite sure there was no point in expecting Sherlock to respond. “Sure,” he said.

“One second.” Greg crawled back up into his car and, after a moment, appeared again with a shovel before jumping back down to the grass. John realised that it hadn't even occurred to him how they would bury Bluebell once they'd found a spot – good thinking on Greg's part.

As they moved on, he couldn't help but notice that Greg had slid a consolatory arm around Molly's shoulders, and wondered briefly if there was more going on there than met the eye. Perhaps he and Sherlock weren't the only recently-resolved pair in the Baker Street Brothers Circus after all. Still, maybe Greg was just being a gentleman.

A spitting of rain, little more than a drizzle, started up. It seemed fitting, somehow, to the mood of the moment. Sherlock hadn't spoken since they'd left the wagon. John laid a hand on his shoulder as they walked, raising his eyebrows and asking, without words, if he was all right. The magician only nodded once, closed expression unchanging. Behind them, John heard quiet murmuring but didn't turn to look, assuming that Greg and Molly were speaking between themselves.

But the murmurs steadily grew. Not in volume, though, so much as in... _quantity_. When they passed the caboose of the train and were nearly to the edge of the woods, John took the opportunity to look back.

It seemed that, as they went, they had been gathering quite a following. Nearly everyone involved in the circus had joined their little funeral procession – Mrs. Hudson (who had somehow managed to gather up a small, slightly wilted bouquet of wildflowers), the jugglers, Henry the high-wire lad... even Mycroft, open umbrella in one hand and half-empty glass of brandy (newly acquired, since the mysterious disappearance of his last bottle) in the other. With a sting of irritation he knew was poorly timed, John noticed that Irene had joined them as well; she held aloft a cigarette in a long holder and looked mildly amused, in a detached sort of way.

Sherlock had to have noticed them all by now, John knew, but neither of them said anything as they crossed just into the edge of the forest, stopping at a small clearing. The crowd of circus folk gathered around in a circle as John took the proffered shovel from Greg and began to dig.

The hole was only about three feet deep by the time John finished, but it would do – Sherlock stepped forward and knelt, arranging the hat box just so in the dirt and stepping back, hands folded. Molly snuffled softly into Greg's shoulder. There was a moment of respectful silence before John said, “Does anyone... er... want to say a few words?”

He honestly hadn't expected anyone to take him up on the offer, but Mycroft, voice just a _bit_ too loud, did so. “Dear Bluebell,” he said, and John knew instantly that the glass of brandy he held was not his first, “noblest of leporines. You were, unquestionably, the most popular feature of the Great Sherlock's act.” A tiny snort, which John was sure had come from Irene, issued from the crowd. “But all lives end,” Mycroft continued, “and even the tiniest and most furry of us must meet our fate. And when we have shuffled off...” He paused. “This mortal coil... must give us pause.” John glanced up. “There's the mistake that makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear – ”

“All right,” John cut in, “that's Shakespeare, that's... that's fine, Mycroft. Thank you.” Mycroft raised his tumbler solemnly.

Everyone seemed to take this as a cue to return to their business and began to file away from the grave. Mrs. Hudson stooped to lay her flowers atop the hat box as she passed, muttering, “Poor dear,” before offering Mycroft a steadying arm and a pat on the wrist.

As the mourners grew small in the distance, John stepped forward with Greg’s shovel and scooped displaced dirt back into the hole, patting it down once he’d covered the box entirely. Sherlock, still silent, stared blankly at the mound as John came back to stand next to him. “You all right?” John asked, nudging him gently.

“She was only a rabbit,” Sherlock muttered after a moment. It was the worst attempt at affected nonchalance John had ever heard from him.

“Maybe, but you were fond of her.”

For a moment the magician looked as though he might argue, but then his shoulders sagged and he sighed. “I was.”

It was an enormous admission, and John was glad of it. “There. So.” He paused. “Is there anything _you’d_ want to say? You know, now it’s just us?”

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a small, thoughtful frown. The rain, sparse to begin with, ceased entirely. “I never meant for this,” he said. “Her death was… unjust. She deserved better.”

He was so much like a child, standing there feeling sorry, that John’s heart ached. “It was an accident. I’m sure she knows that.”

“Hm.”

John squeezed his shoulder again. It seemed a too-small gesture, but it was all he could think to do. “Shall we leave her to her rest, then?” Sherlock nodded tightly, mouth drawn. John turned to go, but felt long, strong fingers grip his wrist quite suddenly, heard his name murmured almost too low to hear. “Yeah?”

The magician seemed to war internally with himself momentarily before saying, “I’m glad. That I have you – that you’re – ” He stopped, shaking his head. “Anyway. Thank you.”

John smiled and, placing a hand on either side of the other man’s face, offered one tender kiss in response.

 

They walked in silence back to the circus. The meagre drizzle wouldn't be enough to close the show entirely, John knew, and he was hoping for some quiet time alone with Sherlock before he had to prepare for his act.

As they passed one of the train's sleeping cars, they were interrupted by a low, unctuous voice. “Get your bunny buried, did you?”

Both men turned to see Jim, the lazy little roustabout, and his grizzled cohort Seb lounging in the open door of the sleeping car. Jim wore an expression of malicious mirth and Seb, half a fag hanging limply from his lips, simply looked bored. “Nice act you've got there,” Jim continued, studying his fingernails as he leaned against the door's edge. “Let everyone think you're some sort of brooding mystery man. They'd never guess you were such a big girl's blouse.” Seb chuckled at that, smoke curling from his crooked mouth.

John's fists clenched. He'd never had much interaction with most of the roustabouts, but to hear the rest of the company tell it, Jim was a slimy git and Seb was just as bad, if quieter about it. He was beginning to understand the sentiment. “That's enough out of you,” he said. Sherlock merely folded his arms and surveyed the pair boredly.

Jim lifted his chin, a gleam in his eyes, and continued to address Sherlock. “Heard your brother gave a _lovely_ eulogy,” he said, ignoring John entirely. “Does he always get blind drunk before a show, or just when he knows he's got to nanny his baby brother?”

“I'm warning you,” John said, taking a step toward the car. Seb noticed and straightened, clearly on the alert. Jim only smiled and John felt a hand on his forearm.

“No,” Sherlock murmured. Then, aloud, “Don't mind him. He's just a roustabout, after all.”

Jim's murine smirk contorted, becoming a nasty scowl. Seb shot him a glance, but Jim offered a barely perceptible shake of his head in response. As Sherlock turned and John followed, Jim called, “I'd keep an eye out just the same, darling. Maybe I'm looking to improve my station.”

John kept quiet until they were safely inside Sherlock's wagon. “Bastard,” he muttered once they were inside, and sat heavily on the camp bed, clenched fists on his knees. “Where does he get off taking the piss like that?”

Sherlock stood at his vanity, gazing forlornly down at the empty cage that still sat on it. “I told you,” he said, “take no notice. They don't matter.”

“What did he mean, 'improve his station'?” John asked, staring at Sherlock's back. “D'you reckon he's planning something?” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, raising a sceptical eyebrow.

“Let him plan,” he said. “He hasn't the resources to set anything in motion.” At John's continued fretting, Sherlock opened one of the vanity's drawers and withdrew a slim, leather-bound book. “Here,” he said, nudging John aside with his hip. John scooted over to make room and Sherlock flopped onto his back on the bed behind him, feet hanging just over the edge. “I'll read your star chart.”

John nearly laughed at the unexpected turn in the magician's mood. “I thought all that was a load of rubbish,” he said, stretching out next to him.

Sherlock flipped the book open, holding it over his head and flicking pages one at a time. “It is, of course.” He cast a sidelong glance at John. “Mostly. When's your birthday?”

John decided it would be easier to just go along with it, rather than trying to parse out exactly what Sherlock was thinking. He did that a lot. “Seven July.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, lips twisted into the smile he often used in his act. “Cancer.” He turned to a section toward the middle of the book and studied the pages silently.

“Well?” John asked, rolling over so that he lay on his side. He propped his head up on one hand. “What's it say?”

Sherlock smiled, not taking his eyes from the book. “It says,” he began, sparing no theatricality, “that you're impatient.”

“Ha bloody ha.”

“The stars do not lie.”

“Anything else?”

The magician hummed sagely, considering the text. “You're very brave.”

John grimaced, remembering the War and the knot of ruined flesh on his shoulder. “Or very stupid.”

“Noble to a fault.”

“Only _you_ would call being noble a fault!” he rejoined.

“Handsome.”

He couldn't contain the snort that escaped him. “Ah, clearly the stars _do_ lie after all.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but made no comment as he continued. “You have a terrible sense of humour.”

John frowned. “Here now, I’m not George Robey, but I can tell a joke.”

“A bad one,” Sherlock muttered, clearly amused at John's indignation if nothing else.

“That all, then?”

Sherlock considered the volume with mock solemnity, peering deep into the open page as though it were a crystal ball. After a moment, just as John was about to press (impatient _indeed_ ), he exclaimed, “Oh! I've missed something _terribly_ important. It says right here, in bold lettering, that you should only ever fall in love with a Capricorn.”

John felt a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “A Capricorn, eh?” he echoed. He began shifting, as though making ready to get up and leave. “I suppose I'd better go and find one, then.”

“Ah, but you're in luck!” the magician cried, flinging the book unceremoniously aside and pouncing on him like a great cat, effectively pinning him to the camp bed. “ _I_ am a Capricorn!”

“Are you indeed,” John laughed. Sherlock nodded emphatically, wild hair bouncing about. John reached up to smooth it away from his wide-eyed, expectant face. “Well now, that is extremely lucky.” Sherlock smiled and lowered his face to John's, their lips just brushing. Against the damp warmth of his mouth, John murmured, “Would've hated to have to fall in love with someone else.”

Their lips met and it tasted different, somehow – deeper and strange with the taste of the word on their tongues. Sherlock’s fingertips trailed down John’s chest, bumping over buttons and lingering on the band of his trousers. John laughed into his mouth. “Haven’t you got a show to get ready for?” he whispered, the protestation sounding insincere even to himself.

Sherlock hummed an affirmation. “This is excellent preparation,” he replied, flicking open John’s flies. “The frustration helps me focus.” John chuckled as the magician lowered his zip.

“You won’t be too terribly frustrated,” he pointed out, “if you keep going.” Sherlock’s wicked smirk offered a silent rebuttal and John gave a low, “Oh,” as he lifted his hips, allowing Sherlock to tug his trousers down around his thighs.

He wasn’t hard, not quite yet. Sherlock kissed him through his underwear – small, almost chaste kisses first, steadily increasing until his tongue was leaving broad, wet patches on the thin fabric and John was entirely stiff. Forgetting to be polite (a courtesy he only seldom remembered these days anyway), he thrust slightly, pressing the damp, straining bulge to Sherlock’s waiting lips. Sherlock ran his mouth along the length of his cock, and the feeling of the fabric against his skin raised gooseflesh along John’s legs. “God, Sherlock,” he grunted, and made an attempt to push his pants down to join his trousers. Sherlock batted his hands away, shaking his head and nuzzling against the base of his encased cock. John grumbled but was neatly ignored, and soon forgot his complaint when he felt Sherlock’s tongue prodding the space just below his balls. He muttered something that was probably blasphemous and _writhed_.

Sherlock pressed the flat expanse of his tongue against him, moving less with the singular muscle now and more with the entirety of his head, neck bobbing with enthusiasm as he reached up to lay his palm against John’s erection, rubbing it almost distractedly as he worked. The pressure on his perineum coupled with the friction on his cock was rapidly causing John’s world to darken at the edges. He opened his mouth, only managing a few desperate noises before scraping out, “If you make me come in my pants, so help me…”

When Sherlock sniggered at him, the low vibration sent a jolt of sensation through the entire lower half of John’s body. But he relented, abandoning his efforts below and moving back upwards, hastily pulling the waistband of John’s pants down so that his cock sprang free. John almost cried out with relief as Sherlock swallowed him to the root. Forgetting himself entirely, he grabbed twin fistfuls of dark, curly hair and thrust hard, effectively ramming himself down the magician’s long throat until he came with a half-barbaric growl that sounded quite unlike him.

He collapsed back onto his pillow, breath slowing. Sherlock pulled off and coughed, brief and quiet and raw, against the back of his hand. “Oh God,” John said, scrubbing his palm over his face. “I’m sorry. I don’t – ”

But Sherlock was already hovering over him, eyes huge and dark, expression feral. “Do not move,” he hissed, “from this spot.” Before John could ask, he continued, “The moment I’m finished with my act, I am going to come back to this wagon, and I am going to have you. I will have you over and over again, until I am completely and utterly spent and you are unable to walk for at least a fortnight.”

John flushed, swallowing. And nodded.

 

He did move, after all. Sherlock, after dressing fully and taming his hair and allowing his own erection to subside, had swept out of the wagon to await the punters. John allowed himself a bit of time to lie there in a post-orgasmic stupor before shaking himself awake and rising to wash his face and readjust his clothing. He briefly considered stripping down entirely and waiting for the other man’s return in nothing but the camp bed, but pushed aside the idea with relative speed. It wouldn’t do to be _too_ obvious about the extent to which Sherlock’s promise (threat?) had excited him.

And he didn’t have long to wait; Sherlock came darting back much sooner than expected, eyes bright, already loosening his bow tie and doffing his topper as he breezed inside. John, who had been lounging on the bed perusing Sherlock’s astrology book (it said nothing, incidentally, about Cancer’s romantic entanglements with Capricorn), sat straight up as the door burst open. “What on earth are you doing back already?” he asked, trying not to sound as irrationally guilty as he felt. He’d spent most of the past hour imagining what might happen when Sherlock returned and – although he was mostly drawing from actual experience – wasn’t sure he wanted him to know.

“Got it over and done with,” Sherlock said, tossing his hat aside and shrugging out of his tails. “Started with the mentalist act, rather than finishing; absolute best way to clear a crowd.” His shirtfront was removed and his shirt untucked by the time he reached the bed. “Absolute rubbish, beginning to end, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the things I wanted to do to you.”

Heat erupted across John’s face as he swung around to place his feet on the floor. “Oh?” he said. His tone leapt straight past casual and landed firmly in flustered. Sherlock’s smile was absolutely sinful. “What did you work out, then?”

Sherlock nudged his knees apart with his shins so that he stood between John’s legs and folded his fingers around the back of John’s neck, thumbs caressing the space just below his ears. “Oh,” he murmured, “just about everything, really.” John grinned up at him and Sherlock released his neck to skate one hand through his hair, blunt nails just scraping his scalp. “Lie down.” John began to recline on his back, but Sherlock shook his head and clarified, “On your stomach.”

John did so, resting his cheek on his folded arms. The camp bed sagged, complaining, as Sherlock straddled him, then leaned forward so that he rested on his elbows, face pressed between John’s shoulder blades. He inhaled slowly and when he pushed his hips forward, John felt something rigid and insistent against the seat of his trousers. He laughed breathlessly. “That didn’t take long.”

“It took all my concentration to will it away during the show.” Sherlock’s voice rumbled low into his shirt. “Very nearly a lost cause.” Another press. Another. “There’s so much to do.” He paused and John grunted agreeably when he felt Sherlock’s teeth at the nape of his neck. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

“You might get undressed,” John suggested. Sherlock grumbled something that wasn’t quite a word and the heat of his body was suddenly gone from John’s back. He heard a rustle of fabric, but Sherlock’s knees stayed put. “What are you – ” He was cut off by hands scrabbling at his waistband once more, so he pushed himself up and allowed Sherlock to jerk his trousers and pants down to his knees before falling rather inelegantly back onto the pillow.

Sherlock’s next words lit a fire in the pit of his stomach. “The lubricant.”

He reached toward the floor next to the bed, searching with his fingers for the small bottle. It was surgical lubricant, really – during their last supply stop, John had managed to convince Anthea that yes, he very well could do with some, despite the lack of intricate surgeries he performed on a regular basis. Once he found it (it was half-empty, he noted; he’d have to come up with an excuse to buy more), he handed it back to Sherlock without looking, thrilling at the sound of the cap being unscrewed.

It was always cold, at first. Sherlock drizzled a liberal amount onto the small of John’s back and John hissed. But Sherlock’s hands were warm and his fingers splayed across John’s buttocks as his thumbs slipped into the cleft between. The pad of one long thumb smoothed across his hole before delving just inside and John sighed, relaxing. Since they'd started sleeping together, they'd distributed themselves fairly evenly when it came to who was on top, so John was by now well accustomed to the feeling of being penetrated. In his younger days, he never would have imagined himself being taken like this, but it was Sherlock. It was all fine.

Sherlock's thumb slid deftly in and out of him, a bit more each time. The rest of his hand simultaneously kneaded the meatier part of his arse and John felt his cock stirring despite being flattened against the linens. Behind him, he could hear Sherlock breathing through his nose – steady, controlled, meant to balance and increase concentration. But it couldn't last; a shuddering sigh told John that the magician was swiftly losing his self control. As his thumb sank into him once more, to the webbing of his hand, John bore down on him, wriggling his hips in silent offering.

An impatient huff of breath ghosted across John's skin and Sherlock's free hand gripped his hip. The thumb slipped out and John felt a slim index finger take its place – a finger that curved inside him, grasping and reaching – and then another. He was being stretched, being made ready, and the lowermost part of his abdomen gave a low, warm throb. He closed his eyes.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock's hand abandoned him. There was the sound of the bottle of lubricant being upended once more and Sherlock grabbed John's shirt, rucking it up to his shoulder blades and exposing the majority of his back. The bed creaked and there, _there_ it was, the length of Sherlock's cock teasing along his cleft in a slow, aching slide of skin. John groaned and Sherlock made some sort of noise at the back of his throat and just when John was beginning to suspect that Sherlock was actively trying to drive him mad, the magician pressed inside.

There was a very still, very quiet moment. _Someday_ , John thought, as though from a great distance, _someday this will stop being so wonderfully strange_. But it was clearly not today.

Sherlock was not shy, nor was he unsure. He'd gotten his sea legs, so to speak, very quickly when they first started; he withdrew and pushed back in, sparing no time and not bothering to pretend at gentility. His hips met John's buttocks and John moaned, filled to the brim. He felt Sherlock bend across him, curving chest to spine as he snaked one long arm between John's body and the bed, gripping at his chest, hand covering his heart. They moved together, Sherlock's thrusts gained force quickly, his laboured breathing dampening John's ear and neck. “Tell me.” His voice was strained, desperate. “Tell me I belong to you.” Another half dozen thrusts, the pounding of his cock unrelenting.

“You,” John gasped, knuckles white as he gripped the pillow. “Me.” The rest of the sentence was lost within the noises he was making. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He let out a thunderous cry and John felt him swell just before releasing. He rode out his orgasm in three long waves, pressing himself as far as possible inside John before collapsing onto him with what sounded like an exultant laugh.

“Oh, John,” he breathed. “You're... God.”

John grinned into the pillow. “That may be a bit generous.” His skin tickled as Sherlock giggled against it. He shouldered up a bit, turning his head to meet Sherlock's eyes. “Don't tell me you're all shagged out already.”

The corners of Sherlock's eyes wrinkled. “Not in the slightest.”

The hand that had been gripping John's chest slid low to cover his semi-erect cock. He hummed with interest and John echoed him in the affirmative before adding, “My turn.”

Sherlock stood and removed his rumpled trousers, detaching himself from John long enough for the latter to flip over onto his back before settling down once more, sitting on his thighs and regarding his thickening cock with a knowing smirk. John pushed himself up on one elbow to steady himself, then reached between his legs to find the lubricant and Sherlock's seed, which had managed to leak out slightly during his shift in position. Coating his palm as best he could, he smeared it over his shaft and began lazily stroking himself, the mixture allowing his hand to glide quite smoothly over the tightening skin. His eyes never left Sherlock's face. Sherlock looked enthralled.

“It'll be a long night if you just sit there watching me,” John said. He passed his fingers over the head, brushing against the foreskin and biting the inside of his cheek.

“I like watching you.” Sherlock trailed a hand down the dip of John's hipbone, pausing just at the edge of his pubic hair. “You're fascinating.”

John snorted. “This coming from the Great Sherlock,” he wondered, mostly to himself.

“The authority on fascinating,” Sherlock confirmed. John grinned, gripping the base of his now fully engorged cock. Sherlock dismounted his legs to lean against the wall of the wagon; somehow the bottle of lubricant was once more in his hand and he was wetting his fingers while watching John touch himself. Pulling his knees up, he reached down and teased his hand across his own arse, prodding gently at his hole. John inhaled sharply when he realised his intent and slowed the pace of his strokes. This was too good to end quickly.

Sherlock pressed two fingers inside himself at once, the strange angle only allowing them in to the first knuckle. He chewed his lower lip, eyes lidded as they followed John's movements. “God,” John sighed, pausing long enough to get his breathing under control. Sherlock shifted his weight and pushed his fingers in as deeply as he could manage, grunting with the effort of contortion. John thought hazily, _If I'm fascinating, I'm_ nothing _compared to the sight of that._ The little camp bed shivered as Sherlock bore down on himself, adding a third finger.

“All right,” John choked out, fisting his cock tightly to stave off his impending orgasm. “All right, enough now, just... just come here.” Sherlock was on top of him once more then, lowering himself onto John's cock, encasing him in tight, wet heat that made him see stars at the corners of his vision. “Yes,” John hissed, gripping Sherlock's hips as he sank down fully. “Yes, Christ, just there.”

Sherlock leaned forward, hands dimpling the skin of John's shoulders as he undulated his hips, keeping John buried deep. His eyes drove into John's and John might have been going mad – he was powerful, powerless, detached, and so very connected it made his head spin. He was leaving bruises on Sherlock's pale skin, he knew, but didn't care; the bruises were a brand, a mark, a sign of ownership. _Tell me I belong to you_.

The orgasm slammed into him before he knew what was happening. He jerked, unsteady, the rhythm of his thrusts upset by the force of it. “God!” he cried, eyes squeezing shut, jaw clenching. Through the fog of pleasure he heard Sherlock's voice, a short, sharp burst he couldn't quite make out.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock's face was hovering centimetres above his own, pink and and shining. Sherlock kissed him, slow and soft, and John thrummed contentedly into his mouth.

 

They opened the wagon's door later. Their exertion seemed to have heated the entire space, so they gathered themselves into states of semi-dress and ventured outside. John, clad only in his trousers and braces, sat on the steps with a tumbler of brandy (he rarely drank anything else these days) while Sherlock stood in the door and smoked, draped in his robe. It was, all told, a lovely evening; the sun was setting in fiery reds and yellows and all was quiet.

Until a small, muffled yip drew their attention.

“Hush up, now.” John and Sherlock exchanged a glance at the sound of Greg's voice, low but not low enough. No sooner had he spoken than he appeared, passing Sherlock's wagon with a bottle of wine in one hand and a leather lead in the other. He was accompanied by one of Molly's poodles; and unless John missed his guess, it was none other than Samson, convicted criminal and presumed dead.

John tilted his head back to find Sherlock looking down at him with a raised eyebrow and the beginnings of a smirk forming on his lips. In unison, they looked back toward the lion tamer. “Evening, Lestrade,” Sherlock said loudly.

Greg jumped visibly, fumbling and nearly dropping the wine bottle with an undignified yelp. Samson looked back toward them with a gay smile, tongue lolling from his mouth. “Christ's blood!” Greg hissed through his teeth, glaring at the pair of them. “Don't _do_ that!”

John smiled against the rim of his glass. “And where are you headed this fine evening?” he asked after taking a sip.

Colour rushed to Greg's cheeks as he took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Nowhere.”

“Nowhere,” Sherlock repeated. “Nowhere, with a bottle of wine and a pilfered poodle.” He blew a thin stream of smoke. “Judging by the direction in which you were headed, 'nowhere' looks an awful lot like the wagon of a certain dog-and-pony girl ten years your junior.” So John hadn't been off by a mile and a half. That was good to know.

Greg considered them for a long moment. They stared back silently. “Well.” Greg stammered, straightening and gesturing to them with a jerk of his chin. “And just what are _you_ two doing, eh, sitting about all...” He seemed to reconsider and sighed. “D'you know what, chaps, I'm not sure I want to know. How about this,” he offered. “You never saw me, I never saw you. This never happened.”

“Deal,” John replied. Greg inclined his head and carried on, leading Samson the fugitive poodle toward Molly's wagon. John chortled and stood as Sherlock flipped the last of his cigarette onto the ground. “Come on.” He ushered Sherlock inside. “I'm completely knackered.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be herded, but cast a dark-eyed look over his shoulder. “Are you indeed?” he asked mildly. John smiled.

“Well,” he admitted, “maybe not _completely_.”


	12. The New Ringmaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stayed silent as he worked, fingers hovering over but not quite touching the gash in his throat, eyes darting between the body and the arc of blood painting the wagon's wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, this is where I earn my "Major Character Death" tag. 
> 
> In other news, we are swiftly approaching the endgame! One more chapter and an epilogue ought to do it for this crazy ride!

Weeks later, there came a day that began like any other. The performers and the roustabouts rose (mostly) with the sun. Angelo doled out breakfast; John gathered up his portion and one for Sherlock – who had been eating more regularly, John couldn't help but notice, since he'd begun getting more 'exercise' – and brought it back to the wagon. Greg and Molly fed the animals and Mrs. Hudson and her band gave the instruments their daily going over.

Noon struck on the clock tower in the nearby village and no-one had seen or heard from Mycroft all day.

Mrs. Hudson was the first to notice. By now, the ring master would have emerged from his own opulent wagon, making sure everything was being done in an orderly and timely fashion. He would have been the one to break apart the scuffle between a pair of workers in the breakfast queue, quibbling over who'd gotten there first. Mrs. Hudson had stepped in instead, and the men ended the encounter feeling a bit like admonished schoolboys. And while Mrs. Hudson was surely glad to do it, she couldn't help but wonder why her interference had been necessary in the first place. So she asked about. Had anyone at all seen Mycroft? Heard a word from him? Made any attempt to approach his wagon?

As it turned out, no, they hadn't. Everyone seemed to have assumed that they were just lucky enough to have been granted a reprieve from his lordly eye.

So it was that Mrs. Hudson came to Sherlock's wagon, tapping tentatively on the door, not foolish enough not to know what she may be interrupting. Happily, John was just finishing his toast and Sherlock was having a shave, so when John opened the door, he was able to do so without reservation. "Mrs. Hudson," he said, wiping crumbs from his chin. "Good morning."

"Good morning." Her expression belied the sentiment, and John was immediately concerned. "Come inside," he offered, ushering her up the steps and into the wagon. Sherlock made one last pass under his chin and wiped the blade clean before turning to the elderly band leader with an inquisitive look.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson began, and cast a worried glance over her shoulder, "Has your brother been in to see you today?"

Sherlock scoffed, folding his razor in on itself. "Of course not. He never sets foot in here unless it's a matter of life and death and I'd prefer to keep it that way. Why?"

"Are you all right?" John interjected, watching Mrs. Hudson carefully. He was no Great Sherlock, but even he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she wrung her hands while simultaneously trying to keep from it.

"Being silly, probably," she replied, shaking her head. "It's just no-one's seen hide nor hair of him all day, and well, you know that's unusual. I thought perhaps you might..." She trailed off, shrugging.

Sherlock stood, great height unfolding slowly and seeming to fill the wagon. "You want me to be the one to check on him," he finished, looking caught somewhere between exasperated and amused. Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Fine," he said. He fully buttoned his shirt and when John reached up to wipe a fleck of shaving cream from the other man's ear, she relaxed long enough to smile at the pair of them. John's own ears heated.

They made the trek to Mycroft's wagon, a stately thing emblazoned with the Baker Street Brothers name, and Sherlock rapped on the door, impatience painting his posture. "Mycroft," he called, sounding as though he would rather be anywhere else, "come out, Mrs. Hudson's worried about you." As was Sherlock's way, he managed to attract the attention of the surrounding circus folk, who gathered behind him, presumably to see the state in which Mycroft would open the door.

But Mycroft didn't open the door. After a moment, Sherlock huffed through his nostrils and knocked again, harder. "Mycroft, don't make me be mother. I don't want to have to come in there."

Silence. Somewhere in the back of the crowd, John heard someone murmur something about a drunken stupor. He glared over his shoulder.

Sherlock sighed loudly and, without further warning, stepped up and flung open the door, stepping inside. The force with which he'd opened the door caused it to bounce off the hinges and swing back, leaving it only slightly ajar. John peered through the crack, but could only see a sliver of the magician's dark form and nothing else. After a silent moment that seemed to stretch on for ages, he heard Sherlock's voice, low. "John." Without hesitation, he mounted the steps and entered the wagon after him.

John was no stranger to violence. In the War, he'd seen soldiers' eyes swell and skin blister with gas, seen the effects of the trenches on his countrymen's legs and feet. He'd once seen a man's arm torn clean from its socket, from body part to useless chunk of meat in mere seconds.  So the sight of Mycroft Holmes, ringmaster of the Baker Street Brothers Circus, laid out across his blood-soaked camp bed, throat opened from ear to ear, was not quite so shocking on a visceral level as it perhaps should have been. John felt nothing at seeing the barbarism itself; it was less disgusting and more surprising than anything else. He swallowed, voice failing, and turned.

For all his inurement to violence, nothing could have prepared him for the look on Sherlock's face.

He was accustomed to seeing the magician stone-faced and unimpressed during his performances, or sly and clever, self-satisfied as he made another discovery while working on his experiments. Even when he lost himself in the pulsing heat of sex there was a measured temperance in his eyes, a sort of internal control that not even John's most talented attentions could break. Sherlock was a man who was never _lost_.

Yet that was exactly how he appeared, in that moment - his pale eyes were not wide, but were painfully empty. He seemed hollow, somehow, a child in a fog who couldn't find his way. His mouth was on its way to slack, tugging at one corner as though he might like to say something, but was unable to muster the breath for it. Without turning his gaze from his dead brother, he reached out for John, hand grasping unseeing for John's hand. John gripped his fingers. "Sherlock. Jesus."

Sherlock's brows knotted and smoothed once, twice, in a wrinkled rhythm as though his face were at war with itself. When he finally did speak, his voice was flat, and that was worse than anything. "And here I thought I'd have to kill him myself one of these days." It was ill-timed, a truly horrible thing to say, but John said nothing. Humour much more macabre than that had kept men sane in France. "It appears someone has saved me the trouble."

He squeezed John's hand and released it, stepping forward. "Sherlock -" John began, intending to stop him, but the magician had already knelt by the camp bed, examining his brother's wound. So John stayed silent as he worked, fingers hovering over but not quite touching the gash in his throat, eyes darting between the body and the arc of blood painting the wagon's wall.

"Smallish blade," he muttered to himself, "probably a shaving razor; they're readily available enough and about the right size for a cut like this. He was standing at the time. See here." He pointed and John edged closer to follow the gesture. "The angle of the blood splatter - no, not standing. Nearly." He stood but not fully, stooped at the knee, and made a slashing motion with his right hand. "He'd been lying down and was rising as the blade struck." He straightened, rubbing his palms together as though cold, and muttered, "Caught off-guard." His voice shook only very slightly, but the quaver didn't escape John's attention.

"Sherlock," he said again, laying a hand on his arm. "We should tell them."

Sherlock looked down at him, blinking, and John got the distinct impression that he'd forgotten he was there, despite (ostensibly) speaking to him. “Yes.” He kept his voice low, as though speaking aloud felt strange. It did. “Yes.”

When Sherlock opened the door to face the crowd, John stood behind him, reading the tension in the lines of his back. He paid little attention to the words used – the world seemed muted somehow, and he heard Sherlock’s voice and the resultant gasp as though from underwater. Of course he was sympathetic to Sherlock’s loss – how could he not be? – but there was a stronger feeling bubbling at the edges of his mind, a terribly selfish thought upon which he couldn’t help but dwell.

With Mycroft gone, what would become of the circus? What would become of _him_?

“John.” Sherlock’s summons shook him from his worry and he looked up. The other man’s look was intense, pressing; John was _needed_. “Will you help me with the body?” _Help him_? John looked back at the corpse numbly. Of course. He would need to be cleaned, dressed, made ready for burial. John nodded. “Good.” He began to roll up his sleeves. “Lestrade will make sure the cancellation of the show is made known and some of the roustabouts are arranging a box. Go and fetch your bag – anything that will help.” He rummaged through Mycroft’s things without pause and John’s heart ached as he saw in his mind the image of a younger Sherlock, pestering his big brother.

“Are you all right?” he asked, causing Sherlock to look up at him with an expression that seemed almost curious. John felt torn. If Sherlock were to crumble, shaking and crying with all the rage and grief the tragedy could inspire, he was sure he’d have no idea what to do with him. In the trenches he’d always approached panicked soldiers as a doctor, with natural warmth and courtesy, but only that of a professional. He’d never had to offer such comfort as a lover, and wasn’t sure how he would manage it. But the perfunctory manner in which Sherlock was dealing with the whole mess seemed almost worse; he was grieving, John _knew_ he was, but he wouldn’t show it. He was a machine, an automaton. It was painful to watch.

Sherlock shook his head and returned to his work, gathering flannels and choosing a suit from selection hanging in the back of the wagon. All he said was, “Your bag, John.”

 

There was no need to arrange a burial, John discovered. He and Sherlock worked together, detached and silent, to prepare Mycroft’s body and to place it in the makeshift coffin arranged by the roustabouts. Sherlock planned to send it back to their family estate near Chard, where it would be cremated, the urn placed in the Holmes family mausoleum. Until that moment, John had had no idea that Sherlock came from a moneyed line, but now didn’t seem the time to question it further.

The coffin was loaded into Angelo’s cart and the cook, accompanied by a softly sniffling Anthea, drove it into town to arrange its departure to Somerset. In the meantime, John and Sherlock cleaned themselves up before Sherlock called a group meeting.

In the big top, they were surrounded by varying degrees of mourning. Some, like Molly, were unabashed in their grief, eyes red and faces wet with unchecked tears. Greg (and indeed, most of the men) made an attempt at stoicism, but the air of sadness was almost palpable. Even Irene looked something close to regretful.

John grit his teeth to see that Jim and Seb, hovering on the edges of the crowd, looked positively gleeful. Jim’s sharp smile was a slap in the face. He couldn’t be certain, of course, for he had no proof, but John couldn’t help feeling that the oily roustabout was somehow responsible for the ringmaster’s murder.

Sherlock held a slim leather file, discovered during his perusal of Mycroft’s things. “As most of you have probably guessed,” he began, not bothering with a preamble, “my brother has left the Baker Street Brothers Circus, in its entirety, to me. With the firm and specific instruction that, in the case of his demise, the show must go on.” A watery murmur rippled through the crowd. “In his will, he expressed hope that I would succeed him as ringmaster. However, knowing myself far better than my brother ever did, I believe that would be disastrous.”

There seemed to be general assent at that, and John smiled quietly to himself. Fine performer though Sherlock undoubtedly was, even John couldn’t imagine him spearheading the entirety of the show. He was best left to his own little tent, where he could show off to his heart’s content. John wondered who, if anyone, Sherlock intended to elect as the new master of ceremonies. He hadn’t spoken much since the discovery of his brother’s body, and John hadn’t found a proper time to ask.

“Per my brother’s wishes, the show will indeed go on,” Sherlock was saying. “But in a week’s time. I feel that that will provide those who wish to mourn plenty of time to do so, while also allowing some rehearsal time for our new ring master…”

Those gathered buzzed with curious energy as Sherlock, ever the showman, paused before gesturing toward the back of the tent.

“Jim Moriarty.”


	13. The J. Moriarty Spectacular

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A toast,” Jim agreed, raising the glass high. “To the new, improved circus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it! Not the final final bit, of course - there will definitely be an epilogue. Mostly for the purposes of another sex scene, though. Anyway.

“What the hell are you thinking!?”

John had waited until they reached Sherlock's wagon, having slipped out of the big top amidst a tumultuous outcry of anger and confusion, to turn on the magician. There was no reason, he thought, to let his rage show publicly; there was enough of that from the circus folk as it was. But now that they were alone, he made his feelings plain, on his face, in his balled fist, in the rigid way he held his body. Jim Moriarty the new ring master? Had Sherlock lost his mind completely?

Silence. Sherlock observed him coolly, eyebrows raised, looking for all the world as though John were the one being unreasonable. His blasé expression did absolutely nothing to cool John's ire; in fact, it made it worse. “You'd best explain it to me, Sherlock. Because I am _not_ getting this.”

“Jim Moriarty is responsible for the murder of my brother.”

John breathed in slowly through his nose, trying to calm himself. It wasn't working. “I suspected that,” he said, voice low and tight, “which is exactly why I _don't_ see – if that slimy git took a knife – ”

“Not a knife, John.” He was condescension made flesh. John wanted to hit him. “A shaving razor, remember? And I do not think for one second that he actually slit Mycroft's throat. I suspect his little henchman did, at his behest.” He steepled his hands, fingertips brushing his chin in methodical thought as he narrowed his eyes. “Do you trust me?”

The question was so unexpected that, for a moment, John forgot to be furious. “What?”

Sherlock reached for him, hands folding across his cheeks, the pads of his fingers just brushing the nape of his neck. It should have been a gentle gesture, even a romantic one, but John only found it mildly disconcerting. The magician’s eyes drilled into his, a kind of urgency roiling beneath the calm exterior of his face. “Do you trust me,” he repeated. It wasn’t a question now.

His response should really have necessitated a bit of thought. It was a heavy thing to ask, something important. Something that changed a life. But the words had scarcely left Sherlock's lips before John spoke. “Yes.”

Sherlock nodded, expression nearing something like gravity. He used their position to pull John toward him, their lips meeting in the way other men might have shaken hands. It was an agreement, a pact, and John wasn't entirely certain what he'd just agreed to. He found, though, that his chest was thumping a message that was perfectly clear: _Whatever he needs_.

When Sherlock pulled away and straightened, he said, "I'll tell you everything before it's said and done. But for now, your ignorance is paramount." John opened his mouth to object, but Sherlock shook his head. "If either Moriarty or his man discovered that you knew something of my plans, you'd be in danger and I can't have that. So for the time being, trust me."

John stared at him for a long moment before nodding again. Sherlock ushered him out of the wagon. "You'll stay in your car," he told him, "for now." John hated it - hated not knowing, hated the prospect of being away from him. And he did trust Sherlock, he did, but that didn't make the situation any easier. As he strode away from the wagon, he heard Sherlock say his name. He turned to see the magician staring after him, the smallest crease between his brows.

He didn't say it - neither of them said it, but it crackled in the air between them and John turned once more. To his lonely boxcar. To ignorance. To uselessness.

By God, if Sherlock didn't let him in on this soon enough, he was going to kill him.

 

The following week was miserable. The circus held its period of mourning; all was grey and dreary as though in memory of Mycroft. John reckoned that very few of the performers suspected Jim had anything to do with the ring master's murder, but resentment toward the former roustabout hung heavy in the air nevertheless. It didn't help that Jim preened like a peacock every chance he got. He wielded his newly appointed authority like a child with a toy sword. John lost count of how many tent flaps were made to be held back so he could pass through, how many arbitrary threats of wages docked were made, how many meals were cut short because Jim and Seb wanted seconds (which they rarely ate, but seemed to want purely for the sake of seeing others go hungry). The one performer who didn't appear to take issue with the new regime was Irene Adler; she even took up position as informant to the ring master, openly passing along gossip and murmurs in exchange for Jim's favour. John hated her all the more for it.

All the while, Sherlock did nothing. Well, not _nothing_ \- he kept mostly to his wagon, and John was sure that he was doing _something_ , but he had no idea what. Being away from Sherlock was driving him mad, nerves jangling not only from his exclusion in Sherlock's plan, but from the emptiness of his bed, from the way he woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares for the first time since joining the circus. Knowing that Sherlock was only a jog away made it infinitely worse - look, but don't touch. It was the longest week of John's life.

Despite the animosity, rehearsals carried on as usual and finally the day came when the Baker Street Brothers Circus would open to the public once more. At midday, Sherlock gathered the company together, informing them at their new ring master had an announcement to make. John tried to catch Sherlock's eye but was ignored. It stung more than it had any right to.

Jim surveyed them like a vile king from his place in the centre ring. He stood atop the brightly-painted plinth from which Mycroft always conducted the show. Seb stood by, arms crossed over his chest, cigarette clamped between his thin lips. He didn't smile, not really, but his steely eyes glinted with amused malice.

“I do hope you've all enjoyed your week off,” was how Jim began. This spun forth a save of less-than-sincere whispers, which Jim cut short with an, “Oh, shut up.” The crowd quieted down and he continued. “We open again today, but I just wanted to let you know that this company won't be running under the Baker Street Brothers banner anymore.” He motioned to Seb, who crossed the big top and pulled a cord, unfurling a massive banner that stretched across the width of the tent. In deep red letters – the exact colour of fresh blood, John thought – read the words

**THE J. MORIARTY SPECTACULAR**

The uproar was instantaneous. “Rubbish!” Greg cried, Molly clinging to his arm in a futile attempt to pacify him. “Complete rubbish!”

John's eyes sought Sherlock and found him at the back of the crowd, hands in his pockets. His face was very nearly blank, but John caught an almost imperceptible tremor, a shiver of muscle that made the magician's lip twitch with rage. When John looked back to the ring, he saw that Jim was also watching Sherlock, gleeful triumph evident in his black eyes. “You'll get used to it,” he sneered, and John was unsure whether he was addressing the crowd at large or Sherlock alone.

Anthea, who had been even more withdrawn since Mycroft's death (John had seen Sherlock speaking quietly with her one day and had felt a completely irrational stab of jealousy before realising that he was probably consoling her) stepped forward, holding something aloft in offering. After a moment, John recognized it as a tumbler filled with an amber liquid – Mycroft's special brandy. “A toast?” she said.

The offer only made the company's complaints more fervent, but Jim, seemingly fed on their offense, snatched the glass from her. The sunlight through the top of the tent that acted as a spotlight made the cut glass of the tumbler glitter, casting patterns on the canvas and on the faces of the angry crowd. It made the brandy positively shine. “A toast,” Jim agreed, raising the glass high. “To the new, _improved_ circus.” Unsurprisingly, he received no echo, but that didn't stop him knocking back the brandy with a satisfied sigh. “All right, everyone in your places,” he commanded, shoving the empty tumbler back into Anthea's waiting hands and shooing her away. “The idiots are coming.”

Indeed, John could hear the approaching murmur of the punters. It was a sound that used to fill him with keen anticipation. Now it only made him sick to his stomach. He made to follow the roustabouts from the tent, but felt a hand grasp his upper arm. Sherlock stood behind, holding but not looking at him, his eyes trained on Jim as he shrugged into his newly-tailored show coat. “Stay.”

John thought at first that he'd misheard. “What?”

“Stay,” Sherlock repeated. “Watch the show.”

John almost laughed. “Watch the show. And see that bastard ruin it? Not bloody likely, thanks, I'll just -”

Sherlock's grip on him tightened and he turned, pale eyes insistent. “John,” he said, speaking very slowly as though that might make his meaning plainer. “Watch. The show.”

For a moment, John only stared at him. Then he realised.

The crowd outside had very nearly reached the big top. John nodded. “Yes.” Sherlock inclined his head briefly and swept away out a side flap of the tent. John took at seat at the back of the big top, centre ring in plain sight, and waited.

It was a matter of no more than about fifteen minutes, herding the audience into the tent. Jim offered no introductory speech to the queue outside, the way Mycroft had always done – he didn't seem to want to waste his time with firing the blood of the paying public. It ruined things rather a bit, John thought – but then, that was hardly the worst aspect of Jim's role as ring master.

He began the show and John, God help him, watched. Jim spoke well enough, his voice carrying across the heads of those assembled, but it had an oily, jeering quality to it that was more than a little discomfiting. He seemed to be laughing _at_ the audience, a kind of private joke at their expense.

At first.

As the show progressed, John thought Jim seemed to look a bit... ill. He thought initially that he was imagining it, that he wanted so badly for some misfortune to befall the little reptile that he was seeing adversity where there was none. But by the time Jim was introducing Greg's big cat act, he was profoundly grey, voice trembling, hands shaking so that even John, from his place at the back, could see.

“Death... death-defying...” Jim managed, before dropping his raised hand (and, with it, Mycroft's cane) and coughing once, a funny sort of realisation lighting his eyes. “Oh,” he breathed, a revelation, more air than sound.

Then he dropped.

There was a moment of absolute silence, then someone in the front row screamed. John was out of his seat and making his way to the barrier as the general panic began to set in. “Let me through,” he insisted, “let me pass. I'm a doctor.”

He reached Jim's side, not sure even as he knelt that he'd help him if he could. But when he pressed two fingers to his neck, it became instantly apparent that there was nothing to be done. Dark eyes stared up at the striped canvas, unseeing.

The crowd scattered. John suspected that if they'd seen a properly violent death – a high-wire accident, maybe, or a lion on the loose – they might have stayed out of sheer morbid fascination. But even he had to admit that a man dropping dead, apropos of nothing, was more than a bit disconcerting.

As the last of the punters made their way out of the tent, John saw a dark figure in the shadows near the entrance. Sherlock's cape hung over his shoulders once more and John, absurdly, thought he looked like nothing so much as an avenging angel.

The performers, hearing the deluge of alarm, had rushed out from behind the back curtain, Molly screamed when she saw Jim's body; Greg, John noticed, was stone-faced.

“Nobody panic,” John said, although judging from the general lack of malaise on the faces of the assembly, panic wasn't likely.

“Is he dead?” one of the jugglers asked.

John nodded. Syl's voice called from the back of the group, “What happened?”

“He just... dropped,” John insisted. “Looked ill for a bit and then...” He gestured to the corpse that used to be Jim.

“Terrible tragedy.” John started; he hadn't even heard Sherlock come up behind him. “Must have been the stress of the position. Not for everyone, that kind of responsibility.”

“Sherlock.” Greg's face said several things very plainly – that he knew with certainty that Sherlock was somehow involved with Jim's death, that normally he would be _very_ unhappy with him for doing such a thing, and that by God, this time he was glad he had. John stifled a smile.

“I think,” Sherlock said, “that this event portends the end of the Baker Street Brothers Circus.”

He received no argument, although John looked up at him with a dozen questions racing through his mind. “I've spoken to the owners of a smaller show,” Sherlock continued, “and they are more than willing to acquire some elements of our operation, for an agreeable price. Those of you who wish to will be welcome to join their company.”

“And those of us that don't?” Greg asked. Sherlock nodded.

“You'll be given a small emolument,” he replied. “Use it however you so choose. Now,” he raised one hand and for a brief instant, John saw the ring master Sherlock might have been. “Since it would seem that our final show is finished, you should all prepare to leave. Dissemble everything but the big top as quickly as possible. Be packed up and ready to board the train within half an hour.”

Everyone obeyed immediately. John stood and Sherlock said once more, “Stay.” They faced each other and Sherlock remained still for only a breath before striding forward and taking John's face in his hands, crushing their lips together. The bit of John's mind that suggested that kissing over a corpse was a _bit not good_ was swiftly silenced; warmth ran through him as his body responded, remembering how it felt in the arms of this man.

When they broke apart for air, John gasped, “How did you do it, then?”

Sherlock almost smiled – almost, but not quite. “I've no idea what you're talking about,” he said.

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Did you know,” the magician said, “that an infusion of zinc sulphide, when combined with certain other elements, can produce a dim red-orange glow?”

A smile slowly spread across John's lips. “The colour of brandy, you mean.”

“Very nearly,” Sherlock agreed. “Practically undetectable in direct sunlight.”

They left the tent together. “Go get ready to leave,” Sherlock instructed him, “and meet me back here in ten minutes.”

John could only guess at why they would need to return, but he agreed.

As he packed his things, making sure all was secure for the train’s departure, John rolled the last few months over in his mind. How long had it been since the sad grey bedsit – the limp, the vast and aimless misery? Not even a year, not by a long measure. Yet he had done and felt so much since then, it may as well have been a lifetime ago. And now it was over.

_Well, not_ all _of it_ , he mused. He was certain that even though the Baker Street Brothers Circus was no more, he would remain at Sherlock’s side. He had no intention of leaving. And that, when it came right down to it, was what mattered.

He rejoined the magician soon after and found him circling the big top, shaking something at the base of the tent as he walked. John looked closely and realised with alarm that it was a can of petrol. “What the hell are you doing?” he exclaimed. Sherlock emptied the can and tossed it aside, glancing up at him.

“Can’t sell the big top,” he said, as though that explained everything. John’s eyebrows rose, a silent demand for clarification. “There’s no sense in taking it with us,” Sherlock continued. “It would only require extra time to strike and extra space on the train. May as well be rid of it. And besides – ” he gave John a significant look – “this may be the best way to avoid questions about the body in the centre ring.”

He snapped, producing in his palm an orb of his blue fire. John grinned. “That’ll hardly work,” he said.

The firelight reflected in Sherlock’s eyes. “Why ever not?”

“Well it’s not _real_ ,” John pointed out. Sherlock raised a contradictory eyebrow, a smirk unrolling across his features, and tossed the flame toward the tent.

The canvas ignited immediately. Aided by the petrol, the fire spread with alarming speed, until the big top was engulfed in an inferno. John gaped, the heat of the blaze flushing his face and neck. He wanted to say something, to ask Sherlock how he had done it or maybe just to offer a timely quip, but he found he couldn’t speak. So they stood mutely before the big top, sharp tongues of flame licking at the charring stripes as their fury swallowed it whole.

 

By the time they returned to the train, everyone was in quite a kerfuffle – what happened to the big top? Was everything all right? Was Sherlock _really_ sure about all this? But the magician silenced them with a wave of his hand and informed them that the train’s next stop – and indeed, its last stop in relation to the circus – would be at Canterbury; there he would meet with the managers of the smaller operation and negotiate the sale of all available people and equipment. During the trip, he continued, he would make his way to everyone’s cars, determining who would transfer their acts to the new show and who would choose to strike out on their own. John thought, for the first time and with a bit of trepidation, that Sherlock had not yet asked him what _he_ wished to do. Surely he would.

The train ride was a long one. But Sherlock had plenty of time to make his rounds, and so he did. Molly and Greg, as it happened, wanted to stay with the animals (“Nobody knows the dogs like I do,” Molly had insisted), and as such would be moving on to the new company. Later, John would discover that their payment had been given to them anyway – and though Sherlock never admitted to it, John suspected that it had been meant as a donation toward the funding of a wedding.

Sally and Syl chose to stay on – they were hardly fit for anything but clownhood – as well as Henry the high-wire boy and the Chinese acrobats. Irene Adler took the money; according to Sherlock, she’d made no mention of what she intended to do with it. John honestly couldn’t care less.

Mrs. Hudson, somewhat to John's surprise, chose to accept her payment and leave the circus life for good. She was getting on in years, she'd explained to Sherlock, and she thought it might be nice to set up a boarding out in one of the London boroughs, for erstwhile performers of all kinds. Sherlock paid her and promised  to come visit someday.

By the time Sherlock finally returned to his sleeping car, where John was waiting for him, he had handed to every performer and roustabout either a contract with the Gaffat Brothers or an envelope containing a sizeable sum of money. “What about Moriarty's man?” John asked, scanning the scratched-out list of names. “Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No one's seen or heard from him since Moriarty dropped dead,” he replied. “I expect he scarpered, once he realised what had happened. We'll not be seeing him again.” He lifted the paper from John's hands, setting it aside and gathering the doctor into his arms. “That's all the business sorted,” he murmured into his hair, long fingers scratching gently at the nape of his neck. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's lapels.

“And what about me, then?”

He could feel something turn over in Sherlock's chest, a buzzing thrum of a reply. “You'll be coming with me, John.”

John pulled back to stare incredulously up into the magician's face. Sherlock wore the expression he so often did, when he felt as though something were obvious and in no need of explanation. “Coming with – where are we going?” John asked. Sherlock's brow quirked.

“Paris, of course,” he said. “The Great Sherlock, live and on stage.” His lips curled into a smirk. “And his lovely assistant.”

John smiled, shaking his head and pulling the taller man down to him, capturing his mouth with his own. He'd never make it as an assistant, he knew, lovely or otherwise. But if Sherlock was going to Paris, well then. So was he.

The train sped on.


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’ve got two hours,” Sherlock muttered. Somehow, John thought with a smile, it sounded like a suggestion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the actual final bit of Centre Ring. It's completely over. Finished. Done with. Over and finished. Done over and finished with. Over. You understand? Finished over with. Done.
> 
> Thank you so much, all of you who've stuck with it (and even more thanks to those of you who've enjoyed it!). 
> 
> Now I am free, released from this (metaphorical) cage in this (literal) basement. Look for me no more.

The pier bustled with people, all bound for the Continent and all eager to board. With a portion of the money left over from pay-outs and the selling of the show’s accoutrement, Sherlock had procured for them two tickets aboard the _Luna_ , bound for Calais. John had never travelled first-class before, on any sort of transport. And his last trip to France _certainly_ hadn’t been plush.

They made their way leisurely toward the moored ship. John stared out across the water, liquid silver in the bright midmorning sun, and thought back to their departure from the circus. Molly, eyes red and damp, had hugged them both tightly before Greg offered them a firm handshake. Likewise, Mrs. Hudson had gathered the pair of them up all at once, assuring them that they were welcome at her boarding house any time. She’d made them swear to keep in touch, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief produced by Sherlock. He’d let her keep it – the last bit of magic he would perform with the Baker Street Brothers.

Someone bumped John’s shoulder, jerking him out of the memory. When he turned to look back, he felt his blood momentarily freeze. The man, swiftly swallowed up by the crowd, looked from the back like no one so much as Sebastian Moran. John looked at Sherlock, but he was studying their tickets and didn’t seem to have noticed anything unusual. John dismissed the sighting as paranoia – he’d been overly worried about the possibility of a reappearance by Moran, despite Sherlock’s assurances to the contrary.

“Here we are,” Sherlock announced, gesturing to a mid-sized steam-ship, its smokestack already filling the air with thick white clouds. “Come on.” He quickened his pace as the boarder gave the final call for passengers. Glancing over his shoulder one last time, John followed.

 

Their cabin was stately, if not overlarge. They bundled inside, arranging their relatively meagre belongings (John’s kit bag, Sherlock’s wardrobe, and an extra smallish bag for the trappings of his act) and getting settled just as the ship’s horn blasted a final farewell to Dover. The sound of passengers on the upper deck, bidding their loved ones on the pier goodbye, carried down to John and Sherlock’s room like distant applause.

John gazed out the window, watching those on the pier, while Sherlock negotiated the rest of his luggage. After a moment, the ship’s horn blasted once more and they ground into motion. Long, pale hands spidered up John’s arms and he felt a warm puff of breath at his collar. “We’ve got two hours,” Sherlock muttered. Somehow, John thought with a smile, it sounded like a suggestion. He leaned back into the magician’s embrace and tilted his head, offering a suggestion of his own. Sherlock obliged, skating his lips along the curve of John’s neck. John hummed, then chuckled as he felt the other man pressing an impressive erection against the seat of his trousers. “You are impossible,” he said, voice thicker than he had intended. Sherlock’s hand ran up his chest, stroking his throat.

“I am in love,” he corrected him, low. “And I adore your cock.” He bit John’s neck and John gave a strangled sort of half-chuckle, half-gasp.

“Do you,” he replied, biting back a groan as Sherlock deftly opened his flies and slipped a hand inside to find his thickening length. He started to say Sherlock’s name, but when one clever forefinger circled his glans, the word escaped as a hiss.

Sherlock rucked up John’s shirt with his other hand, pressing his own cock against him. “I need you.” His voice grated in his throat. “I _need_ you.”

John turned, extricating Sherlock’s hand from his trousers so that he could face him. “Impatient,” he whispered, before reaching up to grab a handful of Sherlock’s hair, just at the nape of his neck, and dragging him down. He plunged his tongue between the magician’s full lips, kissing him with an intensity bordering on savagery. Sherlock’s muffled groan went straight to John’s cock.

They’d gotten quite efficient at undressing one another. Their clothes hit the floor piecemeal but quickly, falling together in sad, wrinkled piles. John trailed brutal kisses down the taller man’s chest, flicking the tip of his tongue across a stiffened nipple and eliciting a hiss from Sherlock. They stumbled back, collapsing onto the creaking mattress. John knelt between Sherlock’s knees and leaned over him as they kissed, lapping and biting and making terrifically undignified noises. “God,” John groaned, feeling Sherlock’s hand wrap once more around his by now throbbing cock. A few slick strokes and John sank his teeth into soft skin at the base of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock yelped.

“Where is it?” John managed, sitting upright and smoothing his palms over the pale body before him.

Sherlock’s head jerked. “Trouser pocket,” he grunted. John crawled off of the bed and knelt to search the mound of black fabric. “Hurry,” Sherlock added.

“Yes, all right,” John said, retrieving the small bottle of lubricant. “Honestly – ”

Whatever he was about to say fled his tongue the instant he stood, his eyes lighting on the sight before him.

Sherlock was sprawled across the linens, knees drawn up, his toes gripping the low bed frame as his left hand slipped between his legs, fingertips pressing into his cleft and against his hole. His right hand was wholly occupied, gripping his flushed cock and moving on it in slow pulls of sliding skin. His eyes were locked on John’s face, lips parted, chest rising and falling with strained regularity. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over his entrance, need and invitation plain on his otherworldly features. When he spoke, it seemed to shake the entire room. “John.”

“Christ,” John breathed. “That’s beautiful.” A sly, self-satisfied smile lifted the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and he thumbed the base of his cock. “Cheeky bastard,” John said, but the roughness in his voice implied that he didn’t mind.

He stepped forward and reclaimed his place on the bed, kneeling between Sherlock’s splayed legs. Bending over, he batted Sherlock’s hand away from his swollen cock in order to drag his tongue up its length before taking the head into his mouth and sucking gently. Sherlock’s hands flexed, fingers curling in on themselves. “John,” he said, voice strained, “that’s wonderful, of course, but – ”

John pulled off and nodded. “I know,” he assured him. “You want me inside.” Sherlock nodded, chewing his bottom lip viciously. John sat back and upended the little bottle, applying a great deal of lubricant to both his own cock and Sherlock’s exposed opening. “I’ve not gotten you ready,” he said, only just realising himself. “Let me – ”

Sherlock lifted one leg and dug his heel into the small of John’s back, forcing his hips forward and causing him to catch himself with palms braced to the mattress on either side of Sherlock’s head. He lifted his head, placing his lips at John’s ears. “I don’t _care_ ,” he growled. “Do it.”

John obliged.

Beneath him, Sherlock cried out in something that sounded equal parts pain and ecstatic relief. Breathing laboured, he pressed with his heel, urging. John hesitated for only a moment, determined to allow Sherlock the opportunity to adjust, before pulling back and sliding in once more.

Sherlock hissed through his teeth and his head fell back against the lumpy pillows, eyes squeezing shut as a beatific smile unfolded across his lips. John almost laughed; his expression was so utterly blissful. It was difficult to believe that what John was doing could cause that kind of happiness, especially in someone as fundamentally insusceptible as the Great Sherlock.

The pressure around his cock was making it hard not to bear down and pound relentlessly at the man beneath him, but John didn’t want to rush things. They had all the time in the world, he reasoned as he slowed his pace further, garnering an affable grumble from Sherlock. They had the rest of their lives.

One hand, thin sinew taut with grasping, reached for him then, wrapping around the back of his head and pulling him down. Sherlock pressed their foreheads together. “Come on, John,” he grunted, breath ragged. “Come on.”

He let himself go, rearing back and slamming into Sherlock ferociously, the bed shaking with it. Sherlock reached back with his free hand to brace himself against the headboard and bear down. Someone groaned, “Yes, God, yes,” and John couldn’t tell which of them it was. Sherlock clung one-handed to him, palm outspread to cover the spot of knotted flesh where the bullet had left his body. An electric thrill shot down his spine.

Between them, Sherlock’s trapped cock pulsed with friction and he moaned obscenely as wet warmth spread across their torsos. The sensation was enough to send John hurtling over the edge toward his own orgasm, burying himself as far as he could go and crying out into the magician’s mouth, riding the waves before collapsing against the Sherlock’s chest.

Their breathing slowed by degrees, the sound of it lost in another blast from the ship’s horn. Sherlock wrapped long arms around John, holding him in place and humming happiness into his hair. “We can’t fall asleep,” John said, voice muffled by pale skin.

Sherlock ignored him, offering in place of a proper response a soft, “I love you.” John’s smile was hidden, but undeniable.

“I love you, too.”

 

_The End_


End file.
